Shades Cast No Shadows
by Kurt
Summary: Chapter 27 is up and this story is COMPLETE! Clarice goes undercover while the GD and his wife are settled calmly in Australia.
1. Meetings

_Author's note:  Here's a story I broke ground on a little bit ago.  It's part of the Erin series (Dr. Lecter's Experiment, Returning the Favor, and The Most Dangerous Plaything).  What with Reflections finished and Ghosts very close to being finished, I decided to go ahead and publish.   _

_                Also, thanks to LoT and Sunni for serving as Australian consultants for this fic.  What I got right is largely thanks to them; whatever I got wrong is exclusively the fault of the bleeding Yank author.  (No, the GD will not kill and eat the Wiggles, Steve Irwin, or Paul Hogan.  Sorry. :D)  _

                Clarice Starling sighed and put a hand to her head.  Paperwork.  God, how she hated paperwork.  There were times she really missed the field.  Yet she'd accepted the promotion to deputy chief a few years ago, and the paperwork was a necessary evil.  But that didn't make it any less evil.  

                Two o'clock.  She had a meeting with the chief of Behavioral Sciences now.  It got her away from the paperwork, at least.  She got up and walked down the hall to his office.  

                Behavioral Sciences wasn't the same since Jack Crawford's death.  The new fellow running it was named Conway.  He wasn't a bad guy, Clarice thought.  The post-Krendler days were definitely better.  

                She stuck her head in his office.  He was seated at his desk.  When he saw her, his face brightened and he gestured for her to enter.

                "Ah, yes, come on in, Agent Starling," he said calmly.  "There's someone I want you to meet."  

                Seated in front of his desk was a tall, imperious-looking black woman.  She wore an expensively cut suit and smiled graciously at Clarice.  Her eyes were liquid black drops.  She seemed to be a Nubian princess in a business suit.  Nobility seemed part of her bearing.  

                "Agent Starling, this is Senator Allstyne," Conway said.  "We're going to be undertaking a project she's interested in."  

                The woman extended her hand elegantly to Clarice.  For a moment, Clarice wondered if she wasn't supposed to kneel and kiss her ring.  Instead, she simply shook it gamely.  

                "Hello, Agent Starling," the senator said.  Her voice was surprisingly deep.  "I'm the junior Senator from Michigan.  Also the resident 'pinko liberal' of the Senate."  She chuckled throatily.  

                "Starling, we're going to be investigating abuse in prisons," Conway went on.  "The Senator has expressed concern about human rights abuses in prisons."  

                The senator chuckled again.  "Yes," she said.  "As I said, I hold the pinko liberal belief that even those in prison should not be subject to arbitrary torture.  A truly shocking belief to hold indeed, in this day and age, but one I do continue to maintain."  

                Clarice Starling had little sympathy for criminals, but put that way it was hard to argue with.   Besides, arguing with a Senator was usually not a bright move.   Besides, this might be interesting.  

                "What we're going to do, Starling, is put agents into various prisons undercover," Conway said.  "It's a tough assignment.  You'd be in from anywhere to thirty to sixty days, supplied with a cover identity.  You would be treated as any other prisoner; the wardens and staff will not know who you really are.  We'll be inserting agents into prisons far away from where they're based.  For example, we might put you in New York or California, but not Virginia.  People might recognize you here."

                "I take it you want me for this assignment," Clarice said, and swallowed.  

                Conway nodded.  "This assignment takes some onions," he said.  "No doubt about it.  We need people who can keep it together under tough conditions – and once you're in, you're on your own for thirty to sixty days.   Your access to telephones would be strictly limited, just like any other prisoner.  Your job would be mostly to record, not to prevent or prosecute.  Write down what you see.  Names, times, places."  

                Clarice thought about it.  It was indeed a tough assignment.  And they wanted _her _for this?   

                "Agent Starling, I've heard all about you," the senator said.  "You've come _highly _recommended.  Part of my belief in doing this is to check on the needs of female prisoners, who are often ignored.  I'm sure you think criminals ought to do the time, but I'd hope you agree they deserve the same right to be free from sexual assault that everyone does."  

                "Of course," Clarice said uncertainly.  Boy, this woman knew how to push the right buttons.             

                "I should tell you who recommended you for this.  Agent Ardelia Mapp.  I brought her into my office to ask about this, and asked how many other agents she might recommend – male and female – who might be up to the task.  Your name was the first she mentioned."  

_Well, thank you Delia, _Clarice thought.  _'Agent Mapp, who would be good to throw in the pokey?' 'Why, my roommate Clarice, of course!'  _

                But no, Ardelia wouldn't steer her wrong.  

                "Is Agent Mapp going to be part of the assignment?" Clarice asked.  

                The senator nodded.  

                Clarice sighed.  "All right," she said.  "I'll do it."  _Wow, me and Ardelia might be cellmates.  It could be like that bad movie we caught on cable.  What was it?  Caged Heat or something like that.  With that loony doctor.  _

                She thought of another doctor who had been described by the uncharitable as loony, and her stomach quivered.  Maybe he'd show up at her door.  No, she was getting off track.  Dr. Lecter had disappeared along with…

                Oh hell.  She'd learned to say it.  His wife.  Dr. Lecter had married Erin Lander and had a child with her.  And Clarice had let them go four years ago.  

                The senator smiled approvingly.  Clarice felt slight butterflies in her stomach.  But this wasn't too bad.   And although she'd never had a gift for office politics, she knew that being part of a senator's pet project was never a bad thing.  

                Still, she found herself nervous.  She was going to have to ask Delia what was up with the idea of becoming jailbirds.  It was slightly unnerving.

…

                The mansion in the wealthy suburb of Watson's Bay was busy.  It was quite grand, a white fortress rising high and square.  The back of the mansion provided a stunning view of the harbor behind it.  The man of the house took due pleasure in the large rooms and the breathtaking view when the sun set over the water.  

                In an upper wing, children's music was playing.  Four men in different colored shirts danced and sang on a TV screen.  A small boy watched them eagerly, bouncing up and down in time with the music.  He paid little attention to the two women with him.  

                "Thank you for watching him, Sunni," one said with a marked American accent.  "We'll be right downstairs if you need us."     

                The younger woman smiled.  "Oh, not at all," she said, and reached down to poke the little boy playfully.  "We'll have a great time here with the videos and all.  Don't worry about a thing, Dr. Litton."

                The woman smiled and gave her son a goodbye kiss before heading for the bedroom she shared with her husband to change.  The bedroom was vast, a pleasant refuge for the two of them.  As she changed into her party finery, it occurred to her that Sydney itself was a refuge.  Here, it was cosmopolitan enough for his tastes.  There was the opera house, and the restaurants in Watson's Bay were enough to satisfy his highly discriminating palate.  But it was also far away from their enemies, and most people would not think to look for them here.

                She had a good job at a private hospital, working as a general surgeon.  They had good papers.  Changing identities was a pain, but necessary when one lives as a fugitive.  It had been years since she practiced under her own name.  Back when she was a resident, actually.  And then _he _had come into her life…  

                The woman known in Sydney as Dr. Elaine Litton glanced at herself in the full-length mirror against her bedroom wall.  The strapless dress was a lot more elegant than the scrubs she usually wore.  But her husband's little _soirees _were strictly black tie.  There were people from the hospital there.  She'd invited her surgical team.  One of the nurses on the floor was watching Michael.    The guests would be here soon.  The caterers and waiters had been setting up all day.   College students in tuxedo shirts would be serving the every whim of the guests.  Her husband was paying them well.   He loved to show off at these little shindigs.   

                She put on her shoes and frowned.  Damn these things. They might look good but they were uncomfortable.  But fashion demanded them.  This was a high-class affair, after all.  Dinner parties at the Litton household were considered _the _event to be seen at.  

                In a way, she thought, it was funny.  In America, they were fugitives.  A warrant for her husband's arrest still existed and would until his death.  Her own name – her original name, actually – was listed on his wanted poster.  She wasn't sure if there was a warrant out for her or not, but the FBI was quite interested in finding Erin Lander, almost as much as they would have enjoyed a leisurely chat with her husband, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  But here in Australia, they were among the social elite of the area.  The local medical community considered Dr. Elaine Litton one of its shining stars.  She was exceptionally good at her job.  

                Dr. Hamilton Litton had secured a post at a local museum as the curator.  He seemed to quite relish the job, steeping his days in history.   Although he had excellent references and a good job history, his employers did not know that his experience in museums had come from the Palazzo Caponi and the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin, as he had worked there under separate names.  Nor did they know that his given name was Hannibal Lecter.  

                But here, the Littons had settled down into a quiet peace.  They had each other and their son, Michael, a cherubic but stubborn three-year-old.  They were happy.  It was quite pleasant here.  

                It sometimes bothered Erin Lander that her son would not know some of the things she had known.  He might be able to travel to America as an adult, but it would never be his home the way it had been hers.  But then again, there was plenty that he _would _know, and that was good too.  There was the harbor and the ferries.  Even now Michael loved the ferry.  He would stand by the side of the boat and stare at the water and laugh.   His high-pitched little laugh was infectious.  Even his father, glacial and dignified, would crack a grin upon hearing his son's joy.  There were parks and there were places to play.   And no matter what, it was better that he have his father.   

                Now if she could ever get used to driving on the left and having the steering wheel on the right, she'd be set.  _He _had no problem with it; he went ripping up and down the highway as if he'd driven like this all his life. Driving on the left?  No problem!  Steering wheel in what she'd always thought of as the passenger seat?  Easy!   She was getting better, though; the first few times she'd broken out in a cold sweat.    

                Erin Lander opened her bedroom door and walked downstairs slowly.  Their dining room was majestic, with a few Renaissance prints on the walls.  The table itself was massive and polished.  Twenty place settings were set up, each one a veritable display of elegance.  A few of the students he'd hired to wait on the tables ran back and forth.  In the middle of things, Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood, calmly giving orders.   He wore a preternaturally neat tuxedo.   

                "Ah, Elaine, dear.  There you are.  You look lovely." he smiled.   

                "Thank you," she murmured.  "How much longer do we have?"  

                "Our guests will be arriving shortly," Dr. Lecter assured her.  "Of course, there will be those who arrive fashionably late.  Is Michael all set?"  

                "He's fine," Erin assured him.  "Sunni is watching him.  He's got his Wiggles videos, and he's happy as a clam."  

                Dr. Lecter scowled briefly.  He had forsworn killing for the sake of his wife and child.  However, if his wife were ever to release him from that vow, Greg, Anthony, Murray, and Jeff were going to be the first ones to meet the business end of a Harpy.  The melodies were simple and the lyrics puerile.  _He _thought his son ought to start out on the classics.  But Michael liked the Wiggles, and Erin would remind him all too commonly that Michael was only three.  Dr. Lecter was like any other parent in some respects, and he did not want to deprive his young son of something that made him happy.  

                The wait staff watched silently as they worked.  Erin wondered what they were thinking.  They were probably amused by the accents.  Her accent was pure American.  She had no hope of trying to match the unique Australian intonation and didn't bother trying.  Dr. Lecter's accent still held the tinges of the British soldiers who had rescued him in Lithuania at a young age.  That made Erin slightly nervous.  It stuck out, and sticking out might attract the attention of the authorities.  

                Yet if the students found it amusing that their employers were a pom and a Yank, they didn't show it.  They were polite and hard-working as Dr. Lecter gleefully directed things.  He was in a good mood, and it showed.  The first guests arrived, and Dr. Lecter conducted them to the parlor, where a bartender prepared drinks and servers offered trays of hors d'oerves.

                As the dinner hour approached, the guests herded into the dining room.  Tuxedoes and party dresses were all on display.  The dinner party was the very height of elegance.  Dr. Lecter sat at the head of the table, smiling benevolently at his guests.  At the far end of the table, Erin occupied the other end.   He'd told her that this part of normal etiquette.  Part of her wondered if this wasn't deliberate, so she couldn't elbow him under the table if he got overly ebullient.  

                But their guests appeared to have a good time, and as the servers brought out the various courses of the meal, Erin found herself enjoying herself.  It was a good party.  Dr. Lecter raised his glass and the guests quieted.  

                "Friends," he said, "we are honored that you have all come to share a meal with us today.  A wish for the coming New Year, if you will."  He cleared his throat and stood.  As he recited, his voice was surprisingly light, investing the syllables with a firm 'pease porridge hot' quality.

                "Earth's increase, foison plenty

 Barns and garners never empty,

 Vines and clustering bunches growing,

 Plants with goodly burden bowing,

Spring come to you at the farthest 

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you, 

Ceres's blessing so is on you."  

Everyone smiled and drank to that.  

Dr. Rhodes, the chief of surgery at the hospital in which Erin worked, chuckled and raised his own glass.  

"An excellent toast, Dr. Litton," he said.  "If I may, a toast of my own, to our most generous host and hostess."   He smiled and began his own.  

"Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings on you." 

"You're too kind, Dr. Rhodes," Dr. Lecter said with a grin.  "We're both cribbing lines from _The Tempest, _so that's fair enough.  They say anything that has to do with the basics of human nature has been touched on by Shakespeare."  

Angela Bartley, a co-worker of Dr. Lecter's at the museum, spoke up.  

"Everything?  Certainly quite a bit," she said.  "We should all be glad for this good friends and good food.  But I do wonder what Shakespeare would make of the world today; it's very different from what he knew.  They say the cannibal killer has struck again."  

Dr. Lecter tilted his head calmly.  "Has he?"  

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Bartley said.  "It was on the news."  She chuckled and blushed.  "I suppose I'm just _awful _for discussing such horrible things at such a fine dinner.  Pardon me."  

"Nonsense," Dr. Lecter said, the attentive host.  "It should make us appreciate what we have all the more."  

On that note, the party continued with dessert.  Dr. Lecter glanced down the table at his wife, who was giving him a slightly suspicious look.  He sighed.  It was understandable, he allowed.  His dinner parties in America had been known for his uncommon cuisine.  But he had promised.  No more whimsical killing.  

Calmly, Dr. Lecter shook his head.  

Dessert was served, and coffee to go with it.  The tone was pleasant and calm. Internally, though, Dr. Lecter was concerned.  

He had selected Sydney as a place to settle with his wife and child.  It had been his safe harbor.  It was cosmopolitan enough for him, and perhaps more importantly, his enemies would not expect him to be here.  They doubtlessly thought he had moved to another country in Europe.  There, they could search for him to his heart's content.  

He believed Clarice would hold true to her promise and allow them to go free, but there were others.  And now, something had occurred that he had never counted on.  Innocent of new murders as he might be, he still might be exposed.  The irony was absolutely hideous.  

A copycat killer was active in Sydney.   And he was assiduously copying Hannibal Lecter's killing style.   


	2. Policing Women

                _Author's note:  So people want the GD to eat the Wiggles?  My, I didn't realize that there was so much anti-Wiggle feeling amongst the Lecterphiles.  For now, it's time to introduce a couple of characters – one you haven't met before and one you may remember.    _

                The meeting room was somewhat tense.  The agents all around the meeting table had all been selected for the prison project.  They'd all been photographed and fingerprinted a half hour before. They were all going to jail, and even though it wasn't permanent, it made them all nervous.  A tense air hung around the room.

                Clarice Starling and Ardelia Mapp were the only women in the room.  The other agents didn't seem to shun them though.  There was a grim camaraderie of the condemned around the table.  They waited calmly until Chief Conway entered the room.  

                "Good morning, people," he said.  "First off, I'd like to thank you all for coming.  This is an assignment that won't be easy.  It _is _the Senator's pet project, and maybe if we make her happy she may be willing to vote for higher FBI budgets.  And certainly, it's also worth saying that even prisoners deserve to have their basic rights respected."  

                He cleared his throat and continued.  

                "Each of you will be assigned a new identity for purposes of the program. At _no _time should you indicate to _any _prison official or prisoner that you are an FBI agent.  This isn't an easy assignment, as I said.  You'll largely be on your own from the day to day.  We do have some support for you, though.   We have two phone numbers for each agent.  One is supposedly your attorney.  Legal calls in most cases are not monitored.  Only use this if the shit hits the fan – if something happens that we need to know _now. _You're all good agents, and I'm not going to lecture you on the difference.  If you need it, it's there.  You be the judge of when you really need it. There will also be a regular 'hello' line – that's a line that will be answered by someone saying 'Hello', not 'FBI'.  That's for less exigent circumstances.  Finally, there will be two addresses you can send mail to – again, one will be set up as your 'attorney'.  The other will be set up as your family.  It will actually go to a local FBI agent's home."  

                "Your job is to observe.  If you see abuses going on, document them.  Document everything you can.  Names.  Badge numbers, if you can get them.  If you see prisoners engaging in illegal acts, document that.  Do _not _attempt to intervene – we can't guarantee your safety if you do.  I don't mean to frighten anyone off, but let's face it, this is a tough assignment."  

                Another agent entered the room and began passing out folders.  Each one had an agent's name written on the manila tab.  Clarice glanced over at Ardelia, who studied hers and grinned.  When the agent gave Clarice hers, she opened her folder to discover her own mug shot and identity papers for her cover identity.  Her new name was Claire Hanson, she was from New York State, and she had been convicted of embezzlement and forgery.  Apparently, she was an identity thief.  

                Ardelia walked up to her and glanced at her folder.  "So what are you in for?" she asked conspiratorially.  

                "Embezzlement and forgery," Clarice said.  "How about you?"  

                Ardelia snickered.  "Remind me to keep the grocery money away from you," she said, and showed Clarice her own folder.  She was now Anna Milsford, and she had been convicted of felony theft in Florida.  

                "Heck, remind me to keep _everything _away from you," Clarice rejoined.  "Too bad.  I thought we might be cellmates."  

                Ardelia grinned.  "Guess not," she said.  "You got off lucky, though."  

                "Lucky?" Clarice asked.  "According to this I'm going to Bedford Hills!  It says here it's maximum security!"  

                'Delia shrugged.  "Clarice, hon, I'm going to a Florida prison, and summer is coming."  She sighed.  "Man, it's gonna be hot."  

                Clarice's mouth quirked.  

                A few of the male agents shared the same gallows humor over discovering their new identities and their crimes, and they traded the details to Clarice and Ardelia.   A few were thieves, a few were drug offenders, and a few were convicted of assault and manslaughter.  Conway cleared his throat to attract their attention.  The agents of the prison project all gathered around the table again.  

                "We're going to be inserting you agents in the prisons over the next few days," he said.  "I trust you have gotten your affairs in order.  The Bureau will take care of paying your bills and all that while you are undercover.  The first group will be inserted tomorrow in areas in the Northeastern United States."  He consulted a list.    "Tomorrow's group will consist of Agents Mackey, Nelson, Pickett, Sayeed, and Starling."  

                Clarice shivered.  This would be her last night in her own bed.  Tomorrow night she would sleep in a prison cell.  Locked down, far away from anyone she knew.  

                But this was important.  Despite herself, Clarice couldn't argue with the fundamental precept of the project: that even prisoners ought to have some sort of fair treatment.  She wondered what she would see.  Would it be hard time?  Would it be like in the movies?  

                Mapp cleared her throat.  "Hey," she announced to the other agents.  "Anyone up for a going-away bash?  Our place.  Eight o'clock.  Bring some beer and some food."  

                Clarice gave her friend a slightly shocked look.  "'Delia!" she stage-whispered.  "We can't have a party.  The place is trashed!" 

                "C'mon, Clarice," Ardelia said, unrepentant.  "We're all going to jail.  Live it up now while you can."  

                Chief Conway grinned tolerantly at the two women.  "I'm not going to tell you not to, but I will suggest you move the timetable up, Agents Mapp and Starling.  Unless there are any other questions, you're all dismissed.  Have your fun now – Mackey, Nelson, Pickett, Sayeed, and Starling all need to be back here at 8 AM tomorrow to catch their flights."  

                Ardelia promptly rescheduled the party to two o'clock, giving her time to cook and get some beer.   The agents filed out, determined to enjoy their last day of freedom.  Chief Conway remained behind, arranging a few papers.  

                The door opened and he glanced over.  Deputy Assistant Attorney General Bob Sneed stuck his head in the doorway.  Conway nodded at him.  He'd always had mixed emotions about Sneed.  Clarice's, his deputy chief, were simpler.  She hated Sneed with a passion.  He didn't exactly know why, and he respected her enough to avoid poking in her file.  So far, Sneed hadn't tried any of his political games.  An uneasy armistice had shown up.  

                "Chief Conway," Sneed said calmly.  "Hi.  I just wanted to remind you.  You're needed at a reinstatement hearing."  

                Conway tilted his distinguished gray head.  "Reinstatement hearing?  No one told me about that."  

                Sneed shrugged.  "I told your secretary," he said glibly.  "Look, this is gonna be a cakewalk. The agent in question is requesting to come back from a medical discharge.  It's not disciplinary."  He made a short chopping gesture as if to indicate how simple it would be.  "Fifteen minutes and bang, we're done.  And you can use the help with Starling going on the prison project, right?"  

                Conway shrugged.  Federal guidelines meant he had to be there, but at this point it was a technicality.  Unless the agent in question had a disciplinary record, reinstatement was for all intents and purposes automatic.  So he went along with Sneed to a meeting room not far away.  There were a few people he recognized, and a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes.  Her features were fine and patrician.  She stood with a haughty sort of politeness when he entered.  

                "Chief Conway," she said.  "Good afternoon.  It's nice to finally meet you.  I'm former Special Agent Rebecca DeGould."  

                …

                Erin Lander left the surgeon's lounge and went in to see her next patient.  Her last, Mrs. Banfield, had been pretty easy.  A pacemaker insertion, nothing too involved.  Here in Australia, she'd done more cardiac work than she had before.  The pace kept her busy, and that was how she preferred it.  

                She pushed open the door and saw a young blonde woman sitting on the hospital bed.  She smiled her usual professional smile.  Patients going into surgery were usually nervous.  She checked her clipboard again.  This patient was…Isabelle Pierce.  Bullet wound removal from the chest.  That gave Erin pause.  Bullet wounds?  She'd pulled enough bullets out of people back in Columbus to turn out her own line of bullet jewelry, but Isabelle Pierce wasn't the usual GSW victim. 

                "Hi, Ms. Pierce," Erin smiled, not knowing her patient's marital status. 

                "Hello, Dr. Litton," the woman on the gurney said, smiling a bit nervously.  

                "It'll just be a minute and then we'll have you into surgery," Erin said, and consulted the chart again.  It looked like this was just patch-up work.  Her own writing indicated where they were pulling bullet fragments out of Isabelle Pierce.  One was unpleasantly close to the heart, but Erin was pretty confident in her ability to get it.  

                Isabelle Pierce smiled nervously.  

                "So how did this happen?" Erin asked.  "Have you spoken to the police?"  

                The other woman smiled nervously again.  "Oh.  I _am _the police, Dr. Litton.  I'm a detective with the Sydney Police Department."  

                Erin nodded.  

                "I've been to America," Detective Pierce continued, trying to distract herself from what was about to happen.  "The National Academy.  Have you heard of that, Dr. Litton?"  

                Erin shook her head.  "I'm afraid not."  

                "The FBI runs it," she explained.  "For police officers in other countries.  They teach some of their techniques."  

                "That must be interesting."  

                "Yes," the detective said.  "I took courses in criminal profiling whilst there.  How to create psychological profiles."  She chuckled and shivered a bit, trying to ignore the fact that the woman in the room with her would be cutting her open and hunting for metal fragments in her body.  "We reviewed some famous cases.  Richard Speck, Norris and Bittaker, Hannibal Lecter, that sort of thing."  

                Erin paused.  "Pretty nasty stuff," she said with studied indifference.   "What made you study that?"  

                Detective Pierce shrugged.  "To help find them here," she said.    "Have you been in the country very long, Dr. Litton?"  

                "A couple of years," Erin admitted.  "My husband got a job as the curator of the museum." 

                 "We seem to be growing our own here," Detective Pierce explained.  "Paul Denyer, for one. Ivan Milat.  William MacDonald.  Worrell and Miller.  Edgar Cooke.  And Steven Armington, which is how I got these bullets for you to take out."  

                Erin nodded, feeling the conversation swing back to safer ground.  "I heard about that," she said casually.   "He was killing prostitutes and strippers, wasn't he?"  

                "Yes, he was.  I profiled him.  Well, with some help from the FBI's Behavioral Sciences."  She shivered at the memory.  "Figured out where he probably was.  He matched my profile pretty well.  We came in to question him at his flat.  He ran at first.  I went after him first.  He turned around with a gun, and boom, here I am."  

                Erin nodded.    "Well," she said, "it doesn't look too bad.  Where did they treat you first?"  

                The detective eyed her.  "Sydney Hospital," she said.  

                "Looks like they did good work," Erin said.  "So you're coming here for the followup?"  

                The unspoken question – how a police detective could afford private health insurance – did not go unnoticed.  

                "My father's a big muckety-muck with Qantas," the detective explained.  "I was the youngest.  He's still a bit protective."  

                Erin smiled.  "Well, that's what fathers do," she said, idly thinking of her own father who had died when she was a young girl.  What would he think of her now?  Would he, a blue-collar electrician, be proud of his surgeon daughter?  Would it trouble him that she had fled with a serial killer?  

                They'd been together for so long.  She could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been on the run with her husband.  They'd settled here, hoping for safety.  Clarice Starling had agreed to let them be, but there were always those who would continue to pursue them.  

                "So how did you like those courses at the FBI?" Erin asked.  Calmly, she grabbed a nurse and asked her quietly to give Detective Pierce her pre-op and get her ready for surgery.  

                "Oh, they were great," the blonde woman said.  "Very interesting.  I got to meet someone I'd always looked up to."  

                "And who was that?" Erin pulled off the question as a bored bit of conversation.  

                "Oh."  The detective smiled nervously, aware that the time of her surgery was at hand.  "Agent Starling.  Clarice Starling."  

                Erin Lander tensed at the sound of that name.  Clarice Starling had always been the shadow over her.  When she had first met Dr. Lecter, she had suffered from kidney disease.  Dr. Lecter had kidnapped her and transplanted new kidneys into her.  And Clarice Starling had not been far behind, demanding that Erin tell her that Dr. Lecter had done the deed.  Years later, when she had been a surgical resident, Dr. Lecter had come to her, thumbless, and sought out her aid.  She'd surgically reattached his thumb.  And Clarice Starling had pursued them.  After that, he'd come back and sought her out again at the end of her residency.  They'd left the US together, and things had been happy for a few years.  And Clarice Starling had pursued them _again_, capturing Erin and holding her prisoner at Quantico.  She'd been pregnant then.    

                After that, Clarice had left them alone, promising to leave them to their peace.  But Erin would always wonder.  Was that promise good forever?  Was this Australian student of Clarice Starling the latest threat to her peace?  

                _No, _she told herself.  _Everything's going to be just fine.  Just pull out the bullet fragments and everything will be just fine.  _

"Are you working on the cannibal-killer case?" she asked, wanting to move away from the subject of the other woman in Hannibal Lecter's life.  

                The detective nodded.  

                "How's that going?"  

                "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the investigation," the detective said.  She shivered nervously.  

                "I understand," Erin said.  "Well, let's get you ready.  I'll be in the OR.  The nurses will get you whatever you need.  We should be ready for you in just a few minutes."  

                Isabelle Pierce trembled a bit on hearing that.  Erin left her in the care of the nurses and entered the scrub room.  Almost automatically, her mind began to slip into a surgeon's mode of thinking.  She'd make her incision under the arm, where it wouldn't scar visibly.  If she could get the bullet fragments laparoscopically, that would be better.  Thoughts of Clarice Starling faded from her mind.  By the time she gloved and gowned, Isabelle Pierce was under anesthesia, and Erin's only thought was how to get the bullet fragments out.  

                All the same, she decided, she was going to try and hang around the detective when she woke up from the anesthesia. She'd be groggy then.  Erin had seen it before. You never knew _what _they would say.    


	3. Processed In

Clarice Starling felt the 747 dip as it prepared to land at Kennedy Airport and found herself nervous.  She was going to be in prison by the end of the night.  _Prison.  _She would be shut away from everything she had ever known.  Even her name would be taken from her.  

                _Oh, it'll be OK, _she thought.  The party had been a blast.  She checked her paperwork.  She had some paperwork in the name of Claire Hanson.  The New York City field office would send someone to pick her up.  They'd arrange for her personal effects to be stored.  Then it was off to the Manhattan courthouse where she would be 'sentenced' and sent off to the prison.  

                _This is important, _she told herself.  _Even prisoners deserve to have some rights.  _Ardelia had told her how she really believed in this project.  Clarice was a bit unsure.  She'd always believed if you do the crime, you do the time.  But she was here, and it was too late to back out now.  Now she got to see the other side of the coin.  

                The plane landed.  Clarice swallowed a bit nervously.  Ox-like now that it was on the ground, the plane lumbered along the runway.  She'd always hated this part.  Hemmed in her seat, forbidden to get up by the plane's crew, while the damn thing puttered along at the speed of a moped.  On the other hand, it was a few more minutes before she would be taken to a jail, tossed in a cell, and driven off to a state prison.  

                But eventually the plane made its way to the gate.  Clarice tensed.  First the first-class seats were let off the plane, and then those in coach like herself.  Clarice shuffled through the tiny aisleway.  

                At the gate were a group of people in suits who held up a sign that read _Starling.  _Normally, those greeting passengers were not allowed to meet at the gate, but that did not hold for FBI agents.  Clarice walked up to them and smiled nervously.  

                "Hi," she said.  "I'm Clarice Starling."  

                One of them, a tall fellow with thick black hair, extended his hand.  "Hi," he said with a pronounced Brooklyn accent.  "I'm Agent Paul DaSilva.  This is Agents Markham, Bender and Fiorello."  

                Clarice shook hands with each in turn.  They began walking down towards the gate, as Clarice did not have anything other than her carry-on with her.  Agent DaSilva talked as they went. 

                "I understand you're going undercover," he said.  "We're here to offer backup support, mostly.  Seems you're going in all by yaself."  

                Clarice nodded.  "More or less," she said tensely.  

                "Well, your hello line and your 'lawyer's office' line is gonna be handled by Agents Markham and Fiorello."  He indicated the two agents standing beside him.  One was a tall WASP-y looking guy; the other was a woman who looked Italian.  "They'll also play your attorneys if you need a legal visit."  

                Clarice nodded again and felt vaguely nervous. 

                "What we're gonna do, Agent Starling, is run you down to the New York field office, get your stuff squared away, get you some lunch, and take you down in the afternoon to the Tombs."  

                A shiver ran down her spine at the sound of that word.  "The _Tombs?_" 

                He nodded.  "It's just the city jail in Manhattan," he said.  "You'll be on a bus to Bedford Hills and on your way shawtly."  

                They made their way down to the car and fought traffic back to the FBI's field office in downtown Manhattan.  The office was busy.  Phones rang and agents ran up and down the aisles.  Clarice realized suddenly that she had no real place here; she was a guest.  It was the FBI, yes, but she had never been here before.  No trace of Clarice Starling here in this place.    

                Agent Fiorello led her to an office.  "Heah," she said in a friendly tone, "You can just leave your stuff heah.  I'll keep it safe for you while you're on assignment."

                Clarice nodded.  

                "Now c'mon," Agent Fiorello continued.  Let's get you some lunch.  Good meal before you go." 

                Clarice left her bag and her gun there.  She found herself feeling uncomfortably naked without it.  That comfortable weight on her hip was just…gone.  

                "You like Italian?" Agent Fiorello asked.  

                Clarice looked around her at the Mediterranean complexions and dark black hair of the agents around her.  She smiled nervously.  

                "Sure, that's fine," she said.  

                She hoped the restaurant would be in Brooklyn or Queens.  Or maybe Buffalo.  Or Nevada; she wasn't picky.  But the New York agents brought her down to the ground floor and then they walked a few blocks up the street.  There was a small restaurant on the ground floor.  Clarice sighed.  

                "You'll like this place," Agent DaSilva said. 

                It was a small, cozy sort of place.  They sat Clarice down and examined the menus.  Clarice didn't know a lot about Italian food.  She examined the menu soberly.  

                "What do you recommend?" she asked.  

                DaSilva shrugged.  "Chicken marsala's good, if you like marsala," he said.  

                Clarice decided to try that.  

                "So," she said.  "Do you come here a lot?"  

                "Oh, yeah.  Good food here."  He grinned.  

                "What sort of stuff do you do here in New York?" she asked.  

                He shrugged.  "The usual, I guess.  We've been mopping up the Families – the Mob.  They're nowhere near what they were.  But there are other guys who come up in their place – United Bamboo, the Russians.  Jeez, the Russians drive ya nuts.  This prison project you're on, now that's a little different."  

                Clarice sighed.  "Yeah, it is," she said.  "Some senator's pet project.  I dunno.  I mean, even prisoners ought to have some rights."  

                "Gonna be tough," DaSilva observed.  "Even Bedford Hills can be a tough facility.  That's the max security prison for women in this state."  

                "Tell me about it," Clarice said.  

                Their food arrived quickly.  Clarice was surprised at the amount of food.  Was she supposed to eat all this?  Herself?  Then it occurred to her that once in prison she wouldn't get a meal like this for a while.  She delved into the slab of chicken, mushrooms, and marsala sauce with gusto.  It was rich and very good.  

                "You know," DaSilva said, "let us know if you need us.  For anything."  

                Clarice nodded.  "Thank you," she said.  "I will."  

                It seemed almost before she knew it, the meal was done and the coffee had been finished.  DaSilva checked his watch.  

                "We gotta get you over to the Tombs and checked in," he said.  

Clarice's stomach twinged.  

                "Now?' she asked.    

                "Yep," Agent DaSilva said.  "Oh, look, it's not that bad.  I worked undercover.  I know it's not gonna be fun, but you'll be fine.  It's not half so bad as you think.  You'll see."  

                Clarice smiled nervously.  "Easy for you to say," she quipped.  With that, she was brought back out to the car and whisked off to the jail in Manhattan.  She didn't have any jewelry except her watch and her suit was pretty simple.  In her hands she had her self-surrender paperwork.  The other FBI agents went with her to the self-surrender window.  Clarice gulped a bit nervously.  

                A bored-looking man in a police uniform eyed her as she approached.  She could feel her palms beginning to sweat.  Part of her told her this was silly; here she was, an FBI agent.  This wasn't real.  In thirty to sixty days she was going to be pulled out of here.  It was unlikely that anyone else in this jail would be getting out so quickly.  

                "Hi," she said nervously.  "I'm Claire Hanson.  I'm here to…umm…surrender, I guess."  

                "Okay," the man said, and stuck out a flabby hand for her paperwork.  Clarice handed it to him.  

                "Hey, Parker," the man caroled.  A woman in the same uniform came up.  "Here, we got to process in this one.  Self-surrender, heading for…let's see…Bedford Hills.  We can get her on a bus this afternoon."  His eyes floated back to Clarice, piggy and small.  

                "OK, now listen up," he said.  "You're in custody as of…now."  He stamped a seal on the form as if to indicate that she was no longer free.  "Go with the guards, do what you're told, you'll do fine.  Kick up a fuss and you'll regret it."  

                Clarice nodded, already wishing she could call a halt to this.  Maybe the New York agents would hear her if she screamed loud enough.  But no, she couldn't turn back _now.  _  The female guard ended the internal debate by grabbing Clarice's elbow and marching her into a small room further down the hall.  She handed Clarice a plastic basket with a number on it.  

                "OK," the guard said.  "Put your clothes in the bag, then we'll give you a uniform.  Then you go down for a physical and a shower."  

                Clarice waited for a moment before realizing the woman meant to watch.  That gave her a bit of pause.  For her part, the guard cracked her gum disinterestedly.  

                "C'mon, I haven't got all day," the guard said irritably.  

                Nervously, Clarice shucked her suit and put it in the basket.  The guard nodded, took the basket, and left the room.  The door clicked shut behind her.  The guard returned a moment later.  Trembling, Clarice noticed that the guard had a rubber glove on.  

                "Are you gonna…," Clarice trailed off. 

                The guard smiled humorlessly.  "Yup," she said.  "Just hold your breath, bend over, it'll be over in a sec."  

                Clarice submitted, her face burning with shame.  Tears of humiliation rose to her eyes.  The guard had the good grace to get it over as quickly as she could, not drawing it out.  After shucking the glove, she searched Clarice's hair and mouth before presenting her with an orange coverall.  Clarice put it on, feeling oddly like she had lost her face.  The guard handcuffed Clarice.  She was a prisoner now.  Then the guard brought Clarice down to another small room for photographs and fingerprints.  

                Once that was done, Clarice was presented to an equally bored doctor for a quick medical examination.  She was quizzed desultorily if she was on any medications, if she was suicidal, and if she was pregnant.  She answered no to all three.  

                After that, Clarice was taken to a holding cell.  There were seven other women in the cell with her.  The door clanged shut behind Clarice.  

                "Okay," the guard said to the women in the cell.  "Bus for Bedford Hills is in a few hours.  Sit tight."  

                She walked away, leaving Clarice to her own thoughts.  

                For a few moments, Clarice wondered what would happen to her.  The other prisoners eyed her warily.  Were they new to this, like she was?  She stared at the cell door, sitting on a bunk, and waited.  

                What would happen now?  What if they found out she was FBI?  Would the prisoners believe that she was here to see that they were protected, or would they simply think 'cop'?  Two of the women were engaged in desultory conversation.  Clarice kept her head down and her mouth shut.  Would they feed them or make them wait?  

                What was 'Delia doing?  Was she at home?  How much longer did she have until she went off to prison?  For a moment Clarice wished she could call her.  She might let something slip.  Besides, none of the other women said anything about phone calls.  

                So she sat in the cell for a few hours until a bunch of guards came down.  

                "Awright, ladies," one of them said sardonically.  "Line up, come out of the cell one by one.  We're gonna cuff you and take you down."  

                Clarice stood with the rest and shuffled out when it was her turn.  She was third in line.  The guards grabbed her wrists, pulled them behind her back, and cuffed her with a quick _rttttch _of the lock.  A click to double-lock them, a quick poke of the finger between her cuffs and her wrists to ensure they weren't too tight.  She felt rather like a cow being processed for the slaughterhouse. The prisoner in front of her wore a leg shackle on one ankle; the other shackle hung free.    The male guard grabbed it and locked it around Clarice's ankle.  He attached another above it, so now Clarice was at the end of the chain gang.  The next prisoner would be shackled behind her.  He patted her behind once and she gasped and clenched her hands.  

                 "Okay, sweetheart, you're all set," he said.  

                She turned around and looked at him.  He seemed not to be bothered in the least by what he had just done.  He simply went on to the next prisoner.  She tried to catch his badge number but was unable to.  

                _You son of a bitch_, she thought.  Sure enough, the next prisoner got her butt patted too.  

                Once the entire set of women had been shackled in line, they were trooped down to a waiting elevator.  There was hardly enough room for them all.  Clarice found herself wedged at the back of the elevator, fighting for air.  But they were brought down to a waiting bus with wire screens over the windows.  One by one, they were unshackled from the line, their ankles cuffed together, and brought up onto the bus.  Clarice was seated in the back.  

                The bus stank of sweat and exhaust fumes.  Clarice sighed and waited.  Her nose itched, but she couldn't possibly reach it.  After the prisoners had all been loaded, the bus idled for a while more.  Clarice sighed.  The woman next to her eyed her curiously but said nothing.  

                Finally, the bus was underway.  The drive to the prison took about two hours.  It would be quicker, Clarice thought, if the bus driver actually cared about getting up to highway speed.  She glanced out the window and saw people gawping at the bus as they passed by in their cars.  For just a moment Clarice found herself wishing that she was down there, instead.  In her own car, staring up at a mesh screen and the woman staring out behind it.  Down there in the free world.  But she wasn't; she was here.  

                Finally, the bus pulled up at the prison.  It stopped at the gate and rattled in with a loud grinding of gears.  The guards got up and cleared their throats.  

                "All right, you bitches," one of them said.  "We've arrived.  Get on your feet and out the door.  Time's a-wasting!"  

                It took a while to offload all the prisoners, and Clarice was sitting towards the back.  But finally she got off the bus and back into line.  The foreboding gray walls of the penitentiary loomed overhead.  

                She had arrived.  

                …

                Isabelle Pierce shifted and awoke with a groan.  She lay on a stretcher with a blanket pulled up around her shoulders.  Her eyes fluttered open.  At her bedside was her doctor.  

                "Good evening," the woman she knew as Elaine Litton said.  "You've been asleep for a bit."  

                "Urgh," the detective groaned.  For some reason, she kept thinking of the cannibal murders.  She'd had the strangest dream.  In it, Clarice Starling had been quizzing her on the cannibal murders, just as she might have expected in the classes she'd attended at the FBI.  _So, Detective Pierce, tell me about the cannibal murders…have you identified a suspect?  What's your profile look like?  _ _I see…go on.  _  

                "Your surgery went well," the surgeon said.  "I got all the bullet fragments.  You should be just fine."  

                Detective Pierce stared at the small woman and nodded.  

                "You'll be groggy," Erin Lander said.  "That's OK.  The nurses will take you back to your room now."  

                A nurse appeared as if on cue and began to wheel Isabelle back to her room.  For her part, she simply lay back against the back of the stretcher and stared around her somewhat confusedly.  Her chest felt numb.  She'd been expecting horrible scars, but Dr. Litton had told her they would go in through small holes rather than slice her open and make a huge scar.  

                The nurse helped her into her bed and smiled cheerily.  

                "Now get some rest," the nurse urged.  Isabelle Pierce did not need her to suggest that; she was still groggy and didn't exactly feel up to going for a jog.  "Are you hungry?  I can find you something to eat."  

                "Not right now," Isabelle said, and her throat felt parched.  "Perhaps some water."  

                "Righto," the nurse said, and left.  

                Isabelle Pierce lay in her bed and sighed.  Something was up.  She knew that even groggy and still half doped-up from her surgery.  She was a keen detective, sharp and intuitive.  She groped for it as she stared at the television – turned off – at the foot of her bed.  

                That was it.  Why was Dr. Litton there at her bedside?  That wasn't normal.  One would expect her aftercare to be dealt with by the nurses, not the surgeon.  

                _Perhaps she was out of surgery and just dropped by.  It's nothing.  _

She lay back in her bed and stared bleary-eyed.  The upper wall of her room was made with a glass wall, so that the nurses could keep an eye on their patients from outside.  There was no door.    

                The clicking of footsteps came nearer.  Isabelle glanced over at the clock.  It was quite late, actually.  11 PM.  Her surgery must have taken longer than she thought.  A man walked down the hall.  He wasn't medical; she could tell that right off the bat.  He wore a suit and tie.  His imperious carriage made him seem taller than he actually was.   

                He caught the attention of one of the nurses.  

                "Pardon me," he said.  "Can you tell me where Dr. Litton is?"   

                The accent was slightly odd to her ears.  It sounded somewhat like Dr. Litton's crisp American accent, but with a touch of British in there.   He pronounced the 'R' as she did, not like Dr. Litton herself.  For a moment she thought slowly how different the word 'surgery' sounded when Dr. Litton said it.  The nurse seemed not surprised to see him.  

                "Oh, yes, you're her husband, aren't you?"   the nurse asked.  

                "Yes, I am," he said.  

                "She's just getting changed, Dr. Litton.  She'll be right out."  

                "I see.  Thank you, we've got opera tickets tonight."  

                "Yes, she'll be right out," the nurse said.  

                Isabelle Pierce stared at the man's profile outside her room.  He waited out in the hall patiently.  Catching sight of her looking at him, he smiled politely and dipped his head in a nod.  

                A few moments later, she could hear the click of heels approaching the man.  

                "I'm sorry, Hamilton," Dr. Elaine Litton said, "I was just checking in on a patient."  She had changed into a dress now.  Isabelle Pierce thought she looked pretty good, all things considered.  

                Yet as the footsteps receded, she found a word forming on her lips and a vague memory of Quantico.  Clarice Starling standing at the head of the class, and a merciless, pale face on the projector screen.  

                "Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Isabelle Pierce murmured.


	4. Investigators at Work

_Author's note:  
This chapter has been delayed a bit -- it seems that FF.net no longer likes the HTML that Microsoft Word 2000 writes. (I don't blame it, personally, but it is inconvenient.) All the text I had written showed up as exclamation points. Methinks the 'adjusting FF.net to meet Apple's new browser' had something to do with it.   
Fortunately, I know how to hand-code HTML, and after using Notepad's search-and-replace to kill off all the bizarre and lengthy Microsoft tags we have a document which FF.net will accept.   
So here we are...three women on the job.  
_

               Prison was not quite what Clarice had ever expected.   She had spent a week in the Reception Center, locked away from the main prison. They'd given her a series of tests and tried to determine how best to rehabilitate her.   She'd had to lie and tell them she didn't have a college degree.   


               Once she'd been assigned a cell in the prison, things had been a bit better.   She'd been assigned a medium-security cell that she shared with two other prisoners.   She was assigned a job working in the prison laundry.   That was pretty hard work, but she did all right.     


               Her two roommates were a bit of a surprise.   One was a quiet woman named Linda.   Clarice wasn't sure what she was in for.   She was hoping for parole at her next hearing.   That was about all she shared with Clarice.   The other was someone Clarice had heard of.     


               Her name was Brittany Tollman, and Clarice had heard of her.   At age eighteen, she and her boyfriend had set out on a killing spree across ten states.   They'd finally been caught in upstate New York.   Her boyfriend, Steven Dennis, was currently serving multiple life sentences. Brittany had claimed she'd been kidnapped by her boyfriend and hadn't killed anyone. Eventually, though, she'd struck a plea bargain with the state.   She testified against her boyfriend and all the murder charges except for one had been dropped.   She was serving twenty-five to life for that one murder.          


               Surprisingly, Brittany was not anything like Clarice had expected a spree killer to be like. She was quiet, reasonably well-behaved, and kept to herself.   She was short and pretty.   She regarded Clarice with a bit of suspicion, but all the inmates did.   Clarice was a new fish.   She had not become part of the prison social world yet.     


               The day itself was totally regimented.   Up at six. Headcount.   Breakfast.   Off to work. Lunch at twelve.   Dinner at six.   More headcounts.   After six, the prisoners were released to their dayrooms to watch TV or play ping-pong or whatever recreation they might want.    Lockdown at 10 PM.     


               Clarice had gotten herself a notebook as soon as she could.   It was hard to keep track of the things she saw.   She had to remember them and then write them in the book late at night when her cellmates were asleep.     


               And there was gonna be a _ton _of stuff for this report.   Clarice saw a lot.   Drugs were commonplace. She didn't know how they were getting into the prison, but they were.   Either the visitors or the guards.   Common sense dictated that.     


               She saw a lot of little stuff.   Male guards lurking around the shower room, even though they were not supposed to.   Some of the inmates had more-or-less consensual relationships with the staff.   Clarice could've stomached that, except that it was a felony anyways.   Plus, she had her doubts as to how really consensual they were.     


               As far as anything darker went, she had her suspicions, but nothing she could prove and nothing she had witnessed with her own eyes.   Crazily, she found herself wishing she had more time.   At the rate she was going, she'd be pulled out of here before anyone opened up enough to trust her.     


               It only struck her as odd occasionally how quickly she embraced her new identity. Dressed as a prisoner and treated like one, she found herself almost automatically sympathizing with her fellow inmates. The guards became an imposing force, to be hated and despised.   And yet for all her adult life she had been a law enforcement officer herself, imposing order on the world the same way they did.     


               She learned swiftly. A prisoner who caused problems got tickets.   These cost a fine of $5. She had always thought that was a small amount, but when you were paid fifteen dollars for two weeks of work, it became much more.   The guards were quick to come down hard on a prisoner they didn't like.   One who played along – one who went down to the corners and crannies where the cameras did not reach – got a lot more leniency. She'd seen herself some favored prisoners given coffee from the guard's machine, small baubles, cigarettes, and things of that nature.     


               The lieutenants and sergeants on duty seemed amenable to all this.   Clarice found that intensely annoying.   A guard offering some inmate a trinket to do him some close personal favors was not good.   A guard harassing an inmate for refusing was bad.    But in Clarice's book, the rank who simply looked the other way were the worst: they could have stopped it and didn't.   


               But Clarice knew what her job was, and she knew this wasn't forever.   Knowing that – and knowing that she would probably be the only voice for these forgotten women – gave her the strength to carry on. She did what she was supposed to. She observed.   She took names.   And she wrote them down and waited until she would be free of this place to tell her tale.   


…   


               Isabelle Pierce was discharged from the hospital two days after her operation.   Although she was tired, she was feeling in much better shape.   Dr. Litton had prescribed her painkillers.   She'd really been quite helpful throughout the surgery.   Detective Pierce found herself feeling some mixed emotions about what she was about to do.     


               Isabelle Pierce was not the only detective who had ever found Dr. Hannibal Lecter in his sanctuary.   But she was not so base as Rinaldo Pazzi had been.   Her determination was to capture the criminal, not sell him. She held back not because she meant to sell him, but because she simply had to have the background. She knew perfectly well what would happen if she attempted to arrest Dr. Lecter without any type of proof.   She'd recognized Dr. Lecter when she was recuperating from anesthesia.   She needed some sort of proof before she could simply run them in. Her superiors would not be inclined to grant her an arrest warrant on someone she'd seen while just after being operated on.   She could see it now:   _So, Detective Pierce, you were groggy and half-awake at the time you believed you saw Hannibal Lecter?   And you expect an arrest warrant based on that?     
_

Besides, she knew perfectly well that if she were wrong, she'd be likely to be a crossing guard for the remainder of her career.   The Littons were fairly well known in Sydney society.   She had to have all her ducks in a row before she could possibly think of arresting him.   For that matter, there was the question of Elaine Litton.   Did she know who her husband was?     


               She made her way back into the office, moving slowly just a bit.   Most of the detectives and police officers seemed glad to see her. Her capture of Steven Armington had not gone unnoticed in the department, particularly when the bastard had shot her in trying to get away.   Of course, there were a few ockers in the department who thought that police work was a man's job, but most of them seemed positive.     


               "G'day, Isabelle!" one of them said as she made her way back to her desk.     


               "G'day," she said, smiling.   


               "Good to have you back," the officer continued.     


               "Good to _be _back," she said.   She sat down at her desk and stared at her computer monitor for a moment.   She pulled up the files they had on the Sydney cannibal killer.   That was what she was _supposed _to be doing.     


               Then she stopped and picked up the phone.   She _had _to at least check.     


               She opened up Internet Explorer on her computer and settled her fingers on the keyboard.   


               _You're being silly. She's just an American surgeon who came here with her husband.   You were high as a kite when you saw him and you were just confused.   Leave it be.   Catch the cannibal killer; that's what your job is.     
_

But the connection was there, clear as day.   The murders looked awfully like Dr. Hannibal Lecter's prior work.   She'd be a sloppy detective if she didn't at least see.   


               She typed www.fbi.gov in the window. A few moments later, the FBI's web site appeared.   She clicked the link for 'Most Wanted'.   Dr. Hannibal Lecter's picture appeared with other criminals who had made the most-wanted list.   


               Isabelle clicked on it.   She was rewarded with a few larger pictures of Dr. Lecter.   Was he the man who had smiled at her in the hallway?   It was hard to say.   The eyes were different, but then his wife was a surgeon.   She could've easily done the work herself. It had been dark and hard to see. 

She read the vitals under the picture.   According to his date of birth, he very well could be the man she'd seen.   Height and weight…she _thought _so, but it was hard to be sure.   She'd been quite groggy and out of it when she saw him.    The _Remarks _section caught her eye.     


               _Dr. Lecter is an avid reader with an interest in medieval history. He has worked in museums under cover identities in other countries.   He is physically fit and quite strong for his age.   He is believed to be traveling with his female companion, Dr. Erin Lander.   He was sent to a maximum-security asylum for the criminally insane in the 1980's and escaped in 1992.   Two correctional officers were murdered in his escape.   After hiding for a time in Florence, Italy, Dr. Lecter murdered an Italian police officer and returned to the United States where he murdered Mason Verger and several others.   He kidnapped a federal agent and killed another.     
_

_                Dr. Lecter was discovered in 2002 in Berlin, Germany.   Although he escaped arrest, his female companion was captured.   She was held briefly by the FBI and escaped federal custody. Dr. Lecter is known to carry a knife and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.     
_

_   
_

There was a link over the name 'Dr. Erin Lander', and Isabelle clicked it.   It brought her to another page.    This one did not have a blue 'FBI Top Ten Most Wanted Fugitive' banner atop it; instead it had a red 'Wanted by the FBI' banner on it. Under that were the words HARBORING A FEDERAL FUGITIVE in black and the name ERIN MARIE LANDER in red. There were photos of the woman the FBI sought.   In one, she had long black hair.   In the other, she was blonde. Isabelle thought she must've had a good beautician.   Dr. Litton had chin-length brown hair, but that could've easily come from a bottle.   


               The aliases listed for Dr. Lander were simply Angela Lind and Angela Brinkley.   The date of birth seemed close enough to be Dr. Litton. The occupation noted for her was 'Surgeon'.   That made Isabelle think.   


               _Remarks: Erin Lander has a dual kidney transplant.   It is believed she obtained this transplant from Dr. Hannibal Lecter, with whom she is traveling. She requires extensive immune suppressant medication.   Dr. Lander fraudulently obtained German citizenship, which has since been revoked. She may be working as a surgeon.   
_

_                Hmmm, _ Isabelle thought and tapped her pen thoughtfully against her teeth.   Did Elaine Litton have a kidney transplant?   That would be harder to find out.   Medical records were confidential.   Still, she'd have a scar, and she'd need a chemist if she were a kidney transplant patient.   A bit of poking around might turn up something.     


               The Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs would have files on them.   She thought about calling them and seeing what they might have.   Only one way to find out.   


               A lieutenant stuck his head out of a meeting room.     


               "Cannibal Task Force meeting," he said.   "Everyone on the Cannibal Task Force, assemble now in the meeting room.     


               She _had _to make that.   They hadn't sent her to America for nothing.   Isabelle fired off a quick email to the police contact at Immigration asking for any files they might have on Hamilton and Elaine Litton.   Then she got up and went into the meeting, wondering if she might have a suspect for these murders.     


…   


               Deputy Assistant Attorney General Bob Sneed entered the FBI's building at Quantico and glanced around.   For him, this was a subordinate agency.   But there was a good offer in it for him.   He proceeded down past the security checkpoints and took the elevator down to the offices of Behavioral Sciences.     


               Once there, he checked in with the secretary and walked down to an office.   It had a new nameplate on the door reading _Rebecca DeGould. _Seated behind her desk was the very agent he had sought.     


               "Hi, DeGould," he said calmly.   "How're you doing?"   


               Rebecca DeGould turned around and eyed him.      


               "Hello, Bob," she said calmly.   "How are you?"   


               "Doin' all right," he said. "Wanted to see how you were settling in now that you're back."     


               Rebecca DeGould smiled coldly.   "I'm just fine," she assured him.   "Back in the swing of things.   I do have some things I want to talk to you about.   Could you close the door?"   


               Sneed did and then sat down without being asked.     


               "What's on your mind?" he asked.     


               Her eyes turned cold. She ran a hand through her reddish-blonde hair.   At the corner of her forehead was a small scar.   Sneed looked at it with some regret.   That was where that psycho Lynch had worked her over with a crowbar.     


               "Look," she said. "I came back here to do something. I have no plans to make the FBI a career.   You know what I did before I came here?"     


               Sneed shrugged. "I hadn't heard," he said delicately.   


               "That's because you didn't care.   That's fine," she said. "I can deal with you on a _quid pro quo _basis, that's just fine.   I worked in the brokerage house my father runs.   Made three times what I did here.   Now listen up, Sneed, I know you've got two kids and one's going to college pretty soon. "     


               Rebecca DeGould tossed her head.   "I'm back here because I need to be.   I want _revenge _for what happened to me, Sneed.   Clarice Starling did this to me.   I _know _she did."     


               Sneed coughed. He didn't know if Starling had anything to do with it or not.   But there might be something in it for him.     


               "Gregory Lynch got straightened out in the asylum," she continued.   "He admitted what he'd done and said Dr. Lecter told him that I was a dirty girl and that he needed to take care of me.   Dr. Lecter didn't know me from Adam; he would've only done it if Starling told him to.   Bitch was probably dealing with him all the time."   Her voice was hard.   


               "Whatever happened to him?" Sneed asked curiously.   "I mean…if you don't want to tell me."     


               DeGould's eyes clouded over with repressed rage.   "We got him declared competent and had him stand trial," she said.   "He drew a twenty-year term.   Worked in the prison laundry.   A year ago he was killed by another prisoner."   She smiled with no kindness.   "Died breathing in Hexlite and lye cleaner.   They had to ID him by his fingerprints.    What a tragedy.   But he _did _verify that it was Dr. Lecter who sicced him on me."   


               Sneed strongly suspected DeGould had more of a hand in the death of Gregory Lynch than she let on, but did not say anything.    DeGould continued.     


               "Before…before I was going to take it easy on Starling.   She'd have lost her job and that would've been it.   But if she wants to play hardball…then I can play hardball too." Her eyes shifted to Sneed as if over open sights.     


               "If you help me, Sneed, I can get you out of government service and get you making some _real _money. Quarter-million a year. No biggie.   Your kids go to college and you'll be a millionaire in short order.   I just have to talk to my dad, and he'll give you a shot.   And it's easy enough.   Just making deals, that's all."     


               Sneed nodded. "I'm listening," he said instantly.   


               "I'm going to want some things, and I'm going to want to know how to do some things.   What I need from you is how to do them and no questions asked."     


               Sneed considered. "You know you're probably taking a risk," he said.   "What if we get caught?"   


               "If _I _get caught, you'll be OK.   If you get caught I'll protect you as much as I can.   My dad has people in the House and Senate on speed dial.   Shouldn't be an issue.   You're a good sneak, Sneed.   That's why I want you."     


               He considered. His kids _were _coming up on college and some money would be helpful.   A job in the big New York brokerage house that Charles DeGould ran would help. Whatever DeGould had planned for Starling…well, Starling was just small fish anyway.   Who cared what happened to her?   


               "What do you want?" he asked.     


               "Your first assignment for me," Rebecca DeGould said.   "Chief Conway has an FBI credit card.   I want the account number and the expiration date."   She chuckled.   "Everything I need to…make a few purchases."       


               Sneed snapped his fingers. "Easy," he said.   "DOJ can get that for you quietly.   I'll pull nine other ones random to smokescreen it."   


               Rebecca DeGould smiled. "Good," she said.   "Stick with me, Sneed."   Then she stopped and kept a firm eye on him.     


               "You probably don't understand why I'm doing this," she said.   "You think I'm being stupid; I can see it in your eyes.   But I _am _doing this, Sneed.   If you help me, you'll be a rich man for your trouble, and once you're in the family fold I can guarantee you that any legal issues will be stopped. We've got enough Senators and Representatives in our pockets.   Fail me and you're toast.    Screw me over, and you'll be in the same boat with Starling.   Stick with me and you'll be rich.   I want this, Bob.   I _will _have my revenge."     


                 



	5. The Ugly Side

_Author's note:Found a fix for the Word 2000 problem – a patch that removes the horror that Microsoft calls HTML and replaces it with something that works better._

_In this chapter, things get somewhat on the unpleasant side (on the Clarice side of things).This fic IS rated R, and there's a reason for that. _

Dr. Hannibal Lecter rather enjoyed his Jaguar.It had the performance he demanded, and zipping through Sydney's streets was quite fun.When he pulled his car into the driveway and got out, he felt exhilarated.His head tilted a bit like a parrot's as he noted that his wife's Jaguar was not present.Odd, but not _too _odd.She was a doctor, after all, and she was quite dedicated to her job.From the passenger seat he took a copy of the _Tattler._There was an international newsstand not far from his place of work that sold it, and Dr. Lecter was fond of the memories he associated with the paper.The Red Dragon, ah, what fun _that _had been.

Dr. Lecter took a moment, as he usually did on arriving at home, to observe the water lapping at the shores of his home.Sydney was _such _a good place for them.Their family, here, far away from their enemies.He rather liked living on the water.For all those years, in his cell, he'd been forced to simply imagine it.The salty tang of the air was a pleasant bouquet.

He took the mail from the mailbox and proceeded inside.He discovered his son parked in front of the living room television with one of those accursed Wiggles videos.Watching him was the nurse Erin occasionally pressed into service as a babysitter.She jumped up when he entered.

"Hello, Sunni," Dr. Lecter said calmly.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Litton," the nurse said."Dr. Litton – er, your wife, I mean – was called back to the hospital.One of her patients ran into a bit of difficulty.We operated on him this morning.She asked me to watch Michael until you got home."

"I see," Dr. Lecter said, unruffled.It was part and parcel of being married to a surgeon.He glanced down at his son."Thank you for watching him.I've got him now."

Michael Litton sat splayed on the floor, watching the TV with delight.He possessed the dark hair and fair skin of his mother.His father had given him his eyes, though: eerie maroon.When he saw his father, he smiled with delight.In one hand he clutched a slice of bread with a dark spread on it.

"Hello, Michael," Dr. Lecter said, and smiled tolerantly down at his son.Michael stood up and gripped his father around the knees in a fierce hug."What are you eating?"

"Oh," Sunni said."I made him a Vegemite sandwich."

Michael broke off a piece from the sandwich and held it up to his father in offering.Dr. Lecter sighed and accepted it.The little boy beamed up at him hopefully, and Dr. Lecter could not evade this.He placed it in his mouth, dreading the outcome.The sour, salty taste spilled over his tongue and went up into his sinuses.It was all he could do not to gag.Worse, he did not want to discourage his son from sharing.Erin reminded him often enough that Michael needed to be encouraged to share, just like any other child.Calmly, Hannibal Lecter put his hand over his mouth and chewed.

"Thank you, Michael," he choked."That was…very nice of you."

"Oh, haven't you eaten it before?It's got _heaps of vitamins.Great stuff for kids," Sunni said._

"No," Dr. Lecter said, his face wrinkling a bit."I'm afraid we don't have such things where I grew up."

"I'll make one for you, if you like," Sunni offered.Dr. Lecter thought of having to consume that again and tried to keep from blanching.

"No, thank you," he said.She was a good person, and he didn't want to upset her."I'll eat with Elaine when she gets home.I don't want to inconvenience you."

"It wouldn't be any inconvenience," the nurse persisted.She grabbed the red-on-yellow jar and a butter knife.Where had it come from?Had Erin bought it for their son?"After all, you're here in Australia now."

"Thank you again, but no," Dr. Lecter said."I'll eat with my wife once she is back.Please, don't trouble yourself."

Sunni shrugged.He walked her out to her car to ensure she left safely, even though the odds of crime in this neighborhood were close to nil.It was _quite exclusive.Once back inside, Dr. Lecter looked down at his son, who seemed to be munching happily on the sandwich.He shuddered and set to examining his mail.It consisted of a few bills, a few notices of some sort from the medical associations Erin belonged to, and some notices of sales.A thank-you note from the menswear shop where Dr. Lecter bought his suits made to measure._

The _Tattler's front page screamed the headline __Is Hannibal the Cannibal downunder? 72-point Railroad Gothic print, Dr. Lecter noted.He sighed and turned the page.Sure enough, the article hysterically detailed the new crimes of the copycat cannibal.Dr. Lecter had not gone back on his promise to his wife.None of the new victims were his work.But whoever it was had him down to a science.Just as he had, the mutilated corpses were found carefully dumped where they would be not easily found.Usually in dumpsters or the like.The true horror, Dr. Lecter thought, would come when they found the copycat's place of work._

Dr. Lecter wanted the copycat stopped as badly as Detective Isabelle Pierce did.To have a copycat in the city he had chosen to hide out in was irony of the most hideous order.If he could quietly find out what he could, he might be able to lead the police to the copycat with them none the wiser.

Besides, copying was so _rude._

It wasn't terribly difficult for anyone to find out how Dr. Lecter had practiced his hobby.There had been no less than twelve cheap true-crime books about him.The photographs of his basement that had induced one police officer to leave law enforcement were available on the Internet these days.But Dr. Lecter thought about what this might mean.

For one thing, the copycat had to have someplace akin to his basement.Somewhere where he could work in peace and quiet.Dr. Lecter thought it would most probably be a house.It was very difficult to work in a flat.The neighbors either heard something or smelled something.The victims had also been dumped all around Sydney.The _Tattler helpfully provided a small map indicating the dumpsites, but it was too small to suit him._

Fortunately, Dr. Lecter had a fast connection to the Internet in his home.Comparing the dumpsites indicated on the map with the maps available online confirmed it.All over Sydney, and nothing particularly seemed to match any mass transit lines.Therefore, the copycat had his own car.From that Dr. Lecter reasoned that he was employed, since he had the means to maintain and operate an automobile.

Too bad he didn't have the case file.He could have done a great deal with that.It was hardly like he could get them, after all.Dr. Lecter sat back and thought.Was the copycat a doctor?The police would doubtlessly think so, but it wasn't necessarily the case.The _Tattler shrieked about how the cuts were 'exactingly precise, just as the monster's work in America was!' and carried on about 'how it could be the work of no other man'.Dr. Lecter knew it __had to be.What with a career, a working spouse, and a three-year-old, he wouldn't have had the __time for such things even if he hadn't promised not to._

The copycat could be a veterinarian, possibly.Or a skilled hunter.Although if it was someone who didn't have experience with the human body, Dr. Lecter would expect to see prior murders while the killer gained some facility with the human body.A copycat was usually not mentally ill.They had little self-esteem and could only realize what they wanted to do 'through' their heroes.Dr. Lecter found himself thinking that this killer had failed somewhere where Dr. Lecter had succeeded.In copying his crimes he covered up his failure.The only question was where and what.

He had helped the authorities once for his own idle amusement.He had helped them again in a clever plan to gain his freedom.Now he had to find out how to help them without betraying his hand – for the sake of his family.

…

For Clarice, time seemed to have slowed down.It hardly seemed like two weeks since she had been processed into prison.One day simply blurred into another.She did her job in the prison laundry; she had her rec afterwards.She had more freedom than she thought she would.She went to work and once her shift was up she had some time to behave.

Of course, she realized, most of this owed it to her behavior.She wasn't a problem for the authorities and so she was given certain privileges.But she still was a prisoner; there was no mistake about that.

The officers mostly left her to her own devices as long as she wasn't an issue for them.Clarice didn't want to be an issue.She was here to observe.If she got herself thrown in lockdown for a week, that was a week she had nothing to observe.She was here to do a job, and do it she would.She also knew that she was a new fish, and that the guards watching her wanted to see if she would run and snitch before they tried anything on her.

Up until now, Clarice had largely tended to think of prisoners the way most law enforcement people did.They broke the law and so they had to pay the price.She'd been rather indifferent to the cries of unfairness that she heard.Now, however, she found herself having to revisit that assumption.

She saw tons of petty things, unfair things.Yet to the people they were happening to, they were not at all unfair.It didn't take long to see which guards liked being assholes.She'd seen one woman neatly strung between two guards:one told her to do her job one way, one told her another way.No matter what she did she was stuck.When she protested, she got a week in solitary.That rankled Clarice.

In some ways, she thought, it was not so different from before.The inmate had been deliberately screwed no matter what she did.But before, she had to admit, she would have shrugged her shoulders and said _Can't do the time, don't do the crime.Now she found herself more dedicated to this project than ever before._

She'd begun to talk a bit more with Brittany.The diminutive spree killer was quiet and cooperative with the guards, mostly.Clarice had noticed that occasionally Brittany would disappear from the cell after work let out.Where she went she tended not to say, but she wasn't in the TV room and wasn't in the rec yard.Her hair and clothes were mussed sometimes; other times she went straight for her toothbrush.She tended to dodge the question whenever Clarice put it to her.Clarice did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening.

When she returned to the cell this time, shortly after dinner, Clarice decided to take the bull by the horns.She neither understood nor approved of what the young woman was doing, but she could at least try to understand.Approval…well, that would take a bit more.

Clarice was sitting on her bunk, observing the younger woman as she entered the cell they shared.Brittany had her pants tapered to her legs in the prison fashion – twisting them around her legs and then rolling the bottoms.Inmates were not allowed to alter their clothing with a needle and thread.

"Hey," Brittany said, and walked past Clarice to the sink.Clarice cleared her throat.

"Hey," she said back.A good start, but she had to follow it up.Clarice took a deep breath and decided to try the casual approach.

"You know," Clarice said, "seems like all the time after dinner you vanish for a little bit just before we get locked in for the night."

"I'm busy," the other woman said.

"Where do you go?"

"Oh, here and there," Brittany said airily, and set to brushing her teeth.

"I guess I'm curious," Clarice said, "because I look in the TV room and you're never there, and sometimes I look on the rec yard and you're not there, either."

Brittany turned off the sink and turned and gave Clarice a level look.For a moment, Clarice was struck by how normal she seemed.She was nothing like Dr. Lecter.She was just a perfectly normal young woman.Where had she gone wrong?

"So you're so concerned about me?" Brittany asked."Look, Claire…I know you're a new fish.Let me give you a tip here.You're in the can now.Do your own time and just let other people do theirs.It'll go a _lot _easier on you."Her eyes were distant.

"I'm not…trying to stop you," Clarice said, raising her hands."I'm just…asking."

Brittany let out a snort."Well, what _I _do is _my _business," she said.Then she paused."It's _my _choice," she said, acknowledging without words what she had been up to."It's different for you.I've seen your type before."

"My type?" Clarice asked softly.

"Your type," Brittany confirmed."You're all nice women from nice backgrounds.Maybe money got a little tight, maybe you just had champagne tastes on a beer wallet.The shit hits the fan and here you are.You caught yourself a five-year sentence.You cry over how rough you have it.But in a year or so, they'll send you to Albion where there's less security than here.If you keep your nose clean, they'll let you out in another year, or two or three.And you go back to your little house with the white picket fence and get on with your life.It's not like that for me.I'm here for the rest of my life, so don't you sit there with that look on your face and judge me."She gave Clarice a cold smile."Besides…if you haven't found out yet, you'll find out soon enough."

Clarice was slightly taken aback.The younger woman was here for a long time, there was no doubt of that, but she'd get out _eventually._

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I judged you," she said, deliberately keeping her voice soft."I'm not.This is my first time down.I'm just…trying to find out what's going on.That's all."

"You'll find out," Brittany promised.

For a few moments the two women stared at each other.Clarice made a mental note to call the agents serving as her backup and see what she could find out about Brittany Tollman.Then a male voice echoed down the hallway.

"Hanson!"

Clarice heard her pseudonym and stood up."Yeah?" she asked.

"Get down to the lieutenant's office.You got some legal mail."

Clarice walked out of the hallway and glanced back at the younger woman sitting on her bed.

"Go get your mail," Brittany said, with no malice or anger in her voice."Might be good news, you never know."

A guard was waiting outside in the hallway, and he escorted Clarice down to the lieutenant's office.It was a small, square cinderblock room, but it was larger than the room Clarice and two other women were expected to live in.Lolling behind the desk in his chair was the lieutenant.He was a tall, muscular man.His hair was fading to gray.He was running to fat, Clarice noticed with distaste.His belly strained the leather belt that held his equipment.His nametag read _BECK. _His heavy black brogans were parked on the edge of the desk.Clarice had seen Lieutenant Beck around a few times, but this was her first time one-on-one with him before.

"Ahh," he said."Inmate Hanson.Come on in.Close the door."

"Good evening, Lieutenant Beck," Clarice said.She felt uneasy.Lieutenant Beck gestured lazily at a chair in front of his desk.Clarice went to sit down.

"Close the door, I said," Beck said calmly.

Why were there butterflies in her stomach now?Clarice did as she was told, somehow aware that she wasn't going to like this.

_This isn't bad, _she told herself._This is proof positive.Maybe Brittany doesn't want to give you names, but if worst comes to worst you'll just get a name yourself.C'mon, Clarice, you've been shot at before.This is nothing._

The silence was somehow oppressive. She could feel it pressing down on her.Didn't seem to bother him a bit.Clarice smiled nervously.

"The CO on duty told me that I had some legal mail," she said brightly."Where is it?"

Lieutenant Beck chuckled."Claire, there isn't any legal mail.I just wanted to talk to you…alone.Sort of explain to you how this place works.You _are _new, after all."

Clarice felt her palms begin to sweat.She realized now just how every other inmate in this place felt.FBI agent or no, undercover or no, she was just a number here and he was everything.On his word alone she could get thrown in the hole.For the first time, she felt like a prisoner, not an FBI agent playing a role.

"Claire, you may have noticed a few other inmates around here who have…an understanding," he said."With us.After all, we run the place.We're not unreasonable people, and maximum security _is _tough.Now, you know, we can make your time here a lot easier…or a lot harder."

"Have I done something wrong?" Clarice asked, and wished for a tape recorder like she'd never wished before.

"No," he said, and smiled."Look.You're gonna be here for a while.You picked up seven years, according to your files.Now, in six months or a year we can send you to Albion – that's medium security, not max like here.Or we can recommend that you stay here."He smiled and shrugged.Clarice sat there, staring at him.Crazily she noticed thick black hairs sticking out of his nostrils.

"Now, Claire, nobody _forces _anybody, it's all good," Beck said."You do for us, we do for you…everyone benefits."

"I'm…I'm not sure I get you, Lieutenant Beck," Clarice said, again wishing she had a wire.Part of her was exhilarated: this guy would be indicted the instant her ass got back to Washington and she made a report to the local DA.Another part of her was simply terrified.

"Okay," Lieutenant Beck said, and got out of his chair."I'll show you, then."He crossed around the desk to where she sat.Up close, he smelled of engine grease and Cheetohs.Now Clarice didn't want a tape recorder; she wanted her .45.He came closer to her, his head blotting out the light.Clarice tensed to fight.Then his lips were greasy and unpleasant on hers, and Clarice thought her mind might snap.


	6. Politics and Contempt

Clarice Starling hovered over the sink in her cell.  Her toothbrush was in her hand.  Frantically, she scrubbed at her teeth.  Maybe, if she brushed and brushed enough, she would be able to rid herself of the stink that she fancied had contaminated her mouth.  Her two cellmates largely ignored her, both curled up with books from the prison library.  

                She'd made her way back into the cell, her clothing slightly askew.  She'd tried to rearrange it as best she could.  She would've liked a shower, but even if they were running showers she'd have to strip in front of a guard.  Right now, that was the _last _thing she wanted.  Now, she found herself feeling a way she personally despised.  Weak, helpless, defenseless, and violated.  

                And yet it could have been so much worse, she knew that.  Objectively, it hadn't been that bad.  He'd just kissed her and groped her a bit.  Stuff like that had happened to her in high school, it wasn't any big deal.  

                But it bothered her a _great _deal.  She could've written off her high-school fumblings in the back seats of cars as merely the high jinks of two kids.  None of her high school boyfriends had really been malicious or forceful.  That had largely been a matter of two equally hormone-crazed teenagers who simply wanted to be together.  Here, it was different.  She felt degraded and objectified, as if she was only a meat puppet there for him to play with.  

                She spat again into the steel sink and went over to sit on her bunk with her head in her hands.  An unpleasant silence hung in the cell.  Finally, Brittany cleared her throat and spoke.  

                "You okay, Claire?"  

                Clarice shook her head. 

                "Guess Beck tried something," Brittany said, as calmly as if Lieutenant Beck had simply stepped on her toe.  

                Clarice shook her head slowly.  Not to indicate that Brittany was wrong.  It was more her own sense of shock that this sort of thing was treated so cavalierly.  

                "Yeah," she said acidly.  "I…I can't believe it."  

                Brittany waited a few moments before speaking.  "Too bad that happened," she said.   

                "It's _wrong," _Clarice said.  "None of us…we weren't sentenced to _that._"  

                Brittany shrugged and looked up from her book.  "Nothing to be done about it," she said.  "Did he…?"  Her question trailed off.  

                Clarice shook her head again, firmer this time.  "No," she said finally, and oddly found herself thinking of Dr. Lecter asking if her foster father had raped her.  "He just kissed me and..well, grabbed me is all."  

                "So you said no?"  

                The conversation seemed downright bizarre to Clarice, but she continued.  "Yes," she said.  "I don't…I can't do those sorts of things."   She waited a moment, remembering the younger woman's outburst before.  "I don't judge you for it, but I just…not for me."  

                "Well," Brittany said nonchalantly, "you just blew your second parole hearing."  

                Clarice looked up and stared at her blankly.  

                "No one gets their first parole hearing," Brittany explained.  "Well, sometimes you might if you're an absolute _saint_.  But hardly anybody does.  The guards have a grapevine.  The ones here talk to the ones at Albion and other places.  You play along and people get to know it.  You don't and they get to know it too.  They'll make sure you have enough tickets and such to blow the second.  They'll try to make you change your mind, you know."  

                Clarice blinked her eyes.  On one level, she could understand what Brittany was saying.  This was prison.  She'd always thought criminals in prison ought to do some hard time.  On another level, though, she was aghast.  _This _sort of punishment was simply unheard of, beyond her pale.  _No one _had the right to do what these guards were doing.  Even a caged lamb was still a lamb.  

                "Jesus," she whispered.  "This is _wrong. _They can't do this."  

                Brittany chuckled bitterly.  "Oh, yes, they can," she said.  Her tone was neutral, as if discussing the weather.  "What did you think you were going to do?  Complain to the captain?  You think he gives a shit?"  

                "There's laws about that," Clarice said.  

                "Yeah, right," Brittany said.  "You think a judge is gonna care?  You're a _prison_ _inmate _now_, _Claire.  They don't care.  They'll all just say you're lying.  End of story."  Her voice turned bitterer.  "Trust me.  I know.  _I _didn't do what got me in here."  

                Clarice had heard of Brittany Tollman's crime spree with her boyfriend – several armed robberies across ten states.  Several clerks and one cop shot dead.  She gave the younger woman a level look.  Surprisingly, it helped to have something other to talk about than the experiences she had just had and what they meant. 

                "I heard about you on the news," Clarice said.  

                "I ain't saying I'm an angel," Brittany said.  "I _am _saying I didn't kill anyone.  Danny did all the killings.  I didn't _shoot _anybody, I just helped stick em up, and I only did that cause Danny whomped on me until I did what he wanted."  She sighed bitterly.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "So why did you plea bargain?"  It occurred to her that Brittany might be suspicious that Clarice knew so much about her.  After all, she was supposed to be a simple identity thief from New York City, not the Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences.  

                Fortunately, Brittany didn't pick up on it.  "Asshole lawyer," she said.  She tilted her head and spoke mockingly.  "'Oh Brittany, they've got you dead to rights, if you don't take this plea deal you'll go to jail and never get out.  At least this way you'll get out of jail _sometime.'  _I thought OK, don't panic, I'll try and appeal once everyone's calmed down.  Then I find out I can't appeal.  I'm stuck here for twenty-five years, no second chances.  'Screw you Brittany, we don't care if you didn't kill anyone, you pleaded and that's all there is to it'."  She shook her head.  "You'll be out and back in your house with the white picket fence for fifteen years before I ever get out.  Don't expect the law to help you.  They don't care.  Just suck it up and deal the best you can.  Cause as long as you got an inmate number you're a liar. The guards are right and you're wrong.  End of story."  

                Clarice pondered for a moment on what the younger woman had said.  It was entirely possible that Brittany was lying about not having killed anyone.  That wouldn't surprise her; criminals _did _lie, plenty.  What got to her more was the entire worldview Brittany seemed to espouse.  Clarice believed in order and justice.  Order was important, but justice was equally so.  The slaughter of the spring lambs that she remembered so ardently had been orderly, but it seemed then – and still seemed – unjust.  She had devoted her life to ensuring that fairness and justice ruled.  

                Yet for Brittany, the system existed not to provide justice to even the weakest lamb, but to oppress.  Justice and equal treatment were a cynical joke, a phrase mouthed by a system that had utterly no interest in providing it.  Clarice could tell liars fairly well, and she didn't think Brittany was lying, _per se.  _She might have convinced herself it was the truth.  She believed what she was saying, that was clear enough.  The idea of everything Clarice had striven for being a cynical lie made her shiver.  

                What was worse was that in this cell, in this prison – hell, in this _world _– Brittany seemed to be right.  

…

                Detective Isabelle Pierce sat behind the wheel of her Holden and adjusted her sunglasses.  She was keeping a firm eye on her prey.  On the passenger seat of the car were the files she'd obtained from Immigrations.  That had given her some food for thought.  

                Immigrations had no file on an immigrant named Elaine Litton.  They _did _have a file on her husband Hamilton.  Nothing too interesting, though, just your standard spouse visa.  A bit of sifting had turned up the fact that Elaine Litton had been born Elaine Banfield in Sydney to an Australian mother and an American father.  US Navy man, according to her birth certificate.  Her mum must've had a taste for Yank sailors. At age three she'd been taken to America with her family.  From that point, the Commonwealth had largely lost track of her for thirty years.    

                Three years ago, Elaine Banfield Litton had apparently strolled into the Australian embassy in Austria and asked for a passport for herself and her newborn son and a spouse visa for her husband.   After giving her the standard lecture that she should've notified the embassy before marrying they gave her the paperwork she'd sought.  

                Nothing untoward; nothing that would raise any eyebrows.  Except those of the detective.  She opened the file and stared at the photographs for Elaine Litton's passport and Hamilton Litton's visa application.  She compared them with the mugshots taken of Hannibal Lecter and Erin Lander when they had respectively fallen into the hands of law enforcement.

                Erin Lander had once fraudulently obtained German citizenship.  Had she fraudulently obtained Australian citizenship as well?   After a phone call to a chatty, bored Immigrations bureaucrat, Isabelle thought there was a very likely reason.  Erin had a dual kidney transplant, and the only doctor who had ever done that was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  Like many countries, Australia required prospective immigrants to undergo a medical examination.  A dual kidney transplant would've been a red flag to the FBI, who still sought the pair.  As a citizen, Elaine Litton had no such obligation.  

 If she was Erin Lander, she'd have had some experience with that, from her time in Germany, and it would have been forefront in her mind.  

She'd tried to inquire discreetly about what Elaine Litton might have done between moving to America at three and showing up in her city of birth three decades later.  Nothing too big; she was loath to attract attention.  The Yanks refused to give her Elaine Litton's American Social Security number, but armed with name and date of birth had gotten her some information.  

No criminal record.  Oddly, no driver's license either, in any state.  Fifty bloody states, how did they ever get driver's license checks done?  She seemed to have simply gone to the States and vanished.               

                Isabelle steered the Holden to the side of the road and kept a close eye on her prey.  Ahead, Elaine Litton got out of her small, sporty Mercedes and began unstrapping her son from his car seat.  They were at one of the prettier parks of Sydney.  Lush grass grew along one part; the water lapped at the shores of the other.  Detective Pierce removed her sunglasses and raised a set of binoculars to her eyes.  

                Part of her thought this was silly.  She _ought _to be shadowing the other Dr. Litton.  He was the dangerous one…if her suspicion was right.  For that matter, she could simply detain him long enough to fingerprint him.  But if she were wrong, she could see career apocalypse heading her way.  The mayor of Sydney had been a guest at the Littons' dinner party; if a mere detective detained one of his friends there would be consequences.  None of them good.  Detective Pierce liked her job.  She wanted more to go on than a single doped-up moment in a hospital.  And she couldn't help but have the feeling that Elaine Litton was the key.   If Hamilton Litton were Hannibal Lecter, he would know better than his wife how to hide.   

                The surgeon was bending over her struggling son as she freed him from his car seat.  Was the back of her blouse rucked up?  At this angle she couldn't tell.  Were there scars there, perhaps?  If there were, that would be enough probable cause to detain her long enough to see if she was the woman the FBI still sought.  

                Elaine Litton stood up and placed her son on the ground near the car.  Like most three-year-olds, Michael Litton was a bit the capricious tyrant.  He wanted to walk like a big boy rather than be carried.  Detective Pierce watched the small boy walk with his mother's hand in his.  Ahead lay a large play area dominated by a large fort-like structure.  Slides and bridges provided ample things for a small child to do. Michael Litton saw it and squealed, running for it as fast as his small feet would carry him.  He clambered eagerly up the ladder, merging into the mass of other children occupying the structure.  

                Isabelle Pierce felt foolish as she watched Elaine Litton walk around the structure, keeping her offspring in close view.  So far, she had simply shadowed her far enough to tell that she was simply bringing her child to a park after checking in at the office.  Hardly an unreasonable thing for a mother to do, really, and it didn't give her anything to detain the surgeon for. 

                _Get the proof, _a voice whispered at her.  

                She was the only woman on the playground without a child, but it was easy enough to approach the large structure without drawing much attention.  Did the boy have a link to Hannibal Lecter, perhaps?  He was too far away and moving too rapidly for her to tell for sure how many fingers he had.  

                She decided to try and get closer to the boy.  Perhaps he did have six fingers after all.  Confidently she strode forward, as if ready to scoop up her own young.  

                "Patrick!" she said stridently, for the benefit of the mums around her.  "Come on, Patrick, come with me now and we'll get some ice cream."   She looked around as if searching for her own nonexistent progeny.  There was the Litton boy, happily running under a 'cave' of sorts in the play structure.  Excellent.  Detective Pierce walked towards the overhang and stuck her head inside.  All she wanted to see was if he had six fingers or not, or perhaps those eerie maroon eyes.       

The inside of the cave was dark and it took her eyes a moment to adjust.  A few random holes in the wall offered the kiddies playing therein the chance to either see out or exit in a way _much _more fun than a boring, workaday door.  She was incensed by the sight of two small white sneakers wriggling through a hole in the wall, accompanied by happy giggles.  _Blast!  _

                  Isabelle Pierce stepped out of the play structure and turned around.  She meant to sigh and call again for her imaginary child.  She did not.  Instead, she froze, rooted to the spot with fear.    

                Dr. Hamilton Litton stood not five feet away from her, looking at her with preternatural calm.  Behind his spectacles, his eyes bored into her, as if easily divining what she meant to do.  His hands were calmly behind his back.  He let her hang for a few seconds before speaking.  His expression was completely inscrutable; she couldn't tell whether he meant to kill her immediately or honestly didn't know who she was.

                "I believe that's my son who just ran out of here," he said calmly.  "Is there something I can help you with, Detective Pierce?"  

                …

                Rebecca DeGould was quite satisfied with herself.  Things were moving along just splendidly.  Starling was still messing around in her prison cell.  That project had worked out better than she ever could have hoped.  In any other circumstance, constructing her revenge would have been much harder; Starling still outranked her and would've been able to keep an eye on her.  DeGould didn't need a lot of support _in _the Bureau or Justice.  Sneed would do just fine for that.  But with Starling safely shunted off to prison on some pinko Senator's pet project, DeGould could work unencumbered.  Made things _much _easier.  

                Now it was time to get the ball rolling.  She'd worked out plans for revenge against Starling before.  Multiple plans, parallel means of getting back at the woman who had masterminded the attack that had crippled Rebecca DeGould for some time.  After getting over the initial horror of the attack, DeGould had set herself to understanding her foe and what had gone on.  

                She'd falsely testified that Clarice Starling had tortured Dr. Lecter's wife.  Starling could have broken her with that, once she got the affidavit from Lecter's wife.  She hadn't.  Instead, she'd simply said that DeGould had suffered enough.  

                It took Rebecca DeGould some time to understand why it was that Starling _hadn't _delivered the killing blow.  It made no sense at all.  Her father had taught her well.  When you had the other guy on the ropes, you finished him off so that he wouldn't come back after you.  Alone in her hospital bed, trying to avoid thinking about the horrors that Gregory Lynch had done to her, DeGould had tried to figure out what Starling's motivations had been.  

                Eventually, she had come to this conclusion: that Starling had spared her out of politics and contempt.  Starling didn't want to look like the big bad bully, kicking her foe when she was down.  At that time, Gregory Lynch had attacked her with a crowbar and then raped her.  Starling had probably been trying to forestall any sympathy backlash for DeGould.  That was the politics part.  

                The contempt part was more galling.  Starling had thought that Rebecca DeGould would never recover. That she was finished, shattered, destroyed.  Starling had _thought _she could turn her back on the broken woman in the hospital bed.  After all, Starling had probably thought no one could prove that she had gotten Dr. Lecter to sic Gregory Lynch on her like some sort of mad dog.  

                Unfortunately for Starling, she was wrong on two counts.  Once on medication Lynch had snapped right back into lucidity.  He'd actually seemed sorry, DeGould thought.   She'd visited him once in the asylum.  He'd burst into tears and implored her forgiveness.  Once he had admitted it was Dr. Lecter who had told him to go after her, that was all DeGould needed.  He'd been willing to face trial.  Damned weird, DeGould thought.  He'd pled guilty, even.  

                It hadn't stopped her from seeing what she would have to do in order to have him killed, though.  He'd raped her and beaten her with a crowbar.  An apology didn't cut it, to be perfectly blunt.  She wondered if he'd thought of her in his final moments, when a burly prisoner hired by a few ranks of go-betweens had drowned him in a tubful of the laundry's caustic chemicals.  They said his face had been so horrible they'd had to ID him by his fingerprints.  

                DeGould knew.  She'd seen the autopsy photos.  She wasn't quite so angry at him anymore.  Whenever she was, she brought out the photo, reminded herself what had happened to him, and felt better in her mind.  

                Vengeance against Dr. Lecter was also something Rebecca DeGould wanted.  But she knew she'd have to wait on that.  He would slip up eventually.  If he happened to croak before they ever caught him, they _would _eventually catch up to his wife and the kid, and DeGould could take her revenge against them and be satisfied.  Starling, however, was another matter.  

                Rebecca DeGould suspected very strongly that Clarice Starling had acted to protect Dr. Lecter and his wife shortly after the escape that had gone so horribly wrong.  She couldn't prove it, though.  If she had, Starling would have been out on her ear.  But this revenge…ahhh, this was _so _fitting.  

                It was time for the first phase.  The groundwork, if you will.  Her plan involved a few other people; she would take down Mapp too.  Mapp was an ally of Starling, and she had to go.  The prior plan against Starling had failed because DeGould hadn't counted on Starling having allies.  

                Once DeGould was done, she wouldn't, either.  Some of it was dumb luck; Starling and Mapp had put themselves in stupid positions.  DeGould was smart enough to move in on Starling's mistake and capitalize on it.  She knew exactly what to do and how to do it.  

                Now it was time for the initial bombing raid.  The first onset of hostilities against her secondary targets.   She was clearing the path so that she could concentrate on wiping her primary foe off the map.  The groundwork for the first strike was already laid; now all she had to do was carry on with it.  Sneed had gotten her the credit card number, and that was all she needed.  But he deserved a reward for helping her.  

                She picked up the phone and dialed Sneed's number.  A few moments later, he answered.  

                "Hi, Bob," she said.  "It's Rebecca.  Listen…you've helped me out a bit, so I've got a sample  of my gratitude for you.  I want you to be at the Adam's Mark hotel in an hour.  Go to the front desk and identify yourself as Conway.  Everything's all set."

                Sneed halted for a moment or two.  "Rebecca,..um….,what do you have in mind?"  

                Did he think _she _was going to meet him there?  She rolled her eyes.  Men.  

                "A little reward," she said.  "Oh, and our initial move too.  You just benefit from it, that's all.  Show up, say you're Conway, get your room key, and wait."  

                "Umm…okay," Bob Sneed said.  

                "Good man," Rebecca said, meaning _good boy.  _"Have fun."  

                She hung up the phone, laced her fingers, and rested her chin on her hands.  Things were going very well indeed.  


	7. Meetings and Conflicts

                _Author's note:  A short chapter today.  Things will be picking up soon; juggling these subplots is a bit more work than I thought.  For now, Clarice gets a visit.  _

                The visiting room at Bedford Hills was crowded and busy.  A visit was something most inmates treasured.  Unlike many prisons, contact visits were allowed here.  Clarice thought it was New York State's law.  She thought it was great.  She didn't take the opportunity to hold hands or hug and kiss that other inmates did, but she could see the effect it had on them.  

                Across from her sat Paul DaSilva.  He wore a blue suit and a red tie.  She thought he looked pretty good.  She didn't suppose she did.  A few weeks of prison had left her thinner and paler.  But she was happy to see someone from the FBI.  Someone from what she already was thinking of as the free world.  

                "So, how you doing?" he asked.  Agent Markham had been sick and so the powers that be had decided to replace him with DaSilva as her 'attorney'.  Once replaced, DaSilva had to play the role the whole way through.  

                She didn't mind.  She liked him.  He had a rough-and-ready manner.  No need for bullshit.  He cut to the chase and expected her to do the same.  In some ways, she thought, he was the opposite of Dr. Lecter.   But he seemed bright and capable at his job.  

                "I'm OK," she said.  "Listen, I got a _lot _of stuff.  It's all in my notebook in my cell.  I can't talk about it now, but there's a lot of stuff going on here that shouldn't."  

                He nodded.  

                "You look a little peaky," he said.  

                Clarice rolled her eyes.  "The food here is _nasty," _ she said.   "Hey, listen, could you look something up for me?"  

                Paul shrugged and nodded.  "What did you need?"  

                Clarice took a breath and held it in.  But she did want to see.  

                "I wanted to know what we could find on Brittany Tollman," she said.  "Sentenced five years ago for first-degree murder, one count."  

                Paul looked a bit surprised.  "Her?  I heard of her.  Her and her boyfriend knocked over a lot of convenience stores.  Couple clerks got killed."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "She says she didn't kill anyone," she explained.  

                Paul rolled his eyes.  "Of _course _she's gonna say that," he said.  From his tone, he didn't believe it.  Clarice found herself suddenly annoyed.  Partially because she knew, too, that until she'd done this project she would've been the same way.  A crook claiming innocence?  Sure, yeah, right, whatever.  

                Clarice sighed.  "Look, I'm just curious," she said.  "She admitted to knocking over the stores but said her boyfriend hit her until she did it.  I just wanted to know if there was anything to her story or not.  If it's too much to ask, I'll do it when I get out."  

                Paul held up his hands.  "Okay, fine," he said.  "I'll look into it.  No big deal.  Other than that, you need anything?"  

                Clarice chuckled.  "Nothing you can give me that isn't contraband," she said.  "Put some money in my commissary account if you want to help.  That's the only thing you can do."  

                Paul grinned.  "OK," he said.  "No sweat, I'll put some money in for you.  Couple hundred oughta do you, right?"  

                Clarice sighed with relief.  Amazing how much that account meant.  And it held so little, in real terms.  A hundred dollars to an inmate was a king's ransom.  She wanted a Walkman to pass the time.  Her cellmates both owned one, and were usually reasonably nice about letting her use theirs, but she didn't want to scam any more than she had to.  Already, even after three weeks, she was starting to think like one of them.  

                "So," DaSilva said.  "Our bosses want to know if you can be out in thirty days or need to stay in for more time to complete your report."  

                Clarice paused.  She really hated prison.  There was no doubt about that.  She had a lot of stuff that would interest the authorities.  The oppressive sexual regime, for one, and there was a lot more.  Drugs, for one.  Drugs ran into the prison as if on a pipeline.  But she hadn't gotten everything.   And she found herself very, very loath to simply walk away from the inmates who needed her.  It seemed to her that she was their only voice.  Only she would be able to do something about what they suffered.  

                "Can I split the difference?" Clarice asked.  "Give me another fifteen days."  

                DaSilva nodded.  "No sweat," he said.  Then he chuckled.  When he laughed, his entire face seemed to light up.  When not smiling, he looked rather like a Mafioso chieftain.  But smiling took ten years off his face and he looked like a happy kid.  "Man, I _never _thought I would've heard someone asking to stay in prison _longer_ than they had to."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "I have a job to do," she said calmly.  "Paul…you don't quite understand.  These women have _nobody _to stand up for them.  I feel responsible."  

                Paul shrugged.  "Well," he said, "they _were _convicted of a crime, or else they wouldn't be here," he said delicately.  

                Clarice made a face.  "I know," she said.  "But there are things you don't sentence people to.  There are things the guards here are doing…things _nobody _has the right to do, particularly when they wear a uniform."  

                Paul nodded.  "Fair enough.  I dunno though, I mean, they're supposed to be the good guys.  You ever feel kind of weird turning them in?"  

                Clarice thought about it for all of thirty seconds and then shook her head.  

                "No," she pronounced finally.  "Not at all.  The law's the same for them as anyone else."  

                Paul chuckled.  "Wow, you're really a convert to this project," he quipped.  

                Clarice nodded.  "These inmates…they've got nobody to stand up for them," she repeated, and realized she was sounding too gung-ho.  She grinned and softened it.  "Besides, it's better than joining a cult, right?"  

                "Hanson, your time's almost up," the guard seated at the desk said disinterestedly.  

                Clarice stood up and shook hands with Paul quickly.  She didn't want to antagonize the guards over legal visits.  They'd be plenty antagonized when they were arrested on multiple federal civil-rights violations.  That alone gave her the ability to carry on.  Besides, it wasn't like she was going to spend more than a few weeks here.  

                All the same, she reflected as they brought her back to her cell, she liked Paul DaSilva's visits.  

…

                Detective Isabelle Pierce sat outside the lieutenant's office with trepidation growing in her gut.  It had been only a few hours since the park.  Dr. Litton – _Dr. Lecter, _she just knew it – hadn't done anything to her.  Then again, what was he supposed to do?  Gut her right in the park?  

                No, instead, it had been subtler.  She'd gone back to her car and slunk away, the doctor's eyes burning on her back as she went.  She had the uncomfortable feeling that the smarter thing to do might be to move.  To Tasmania, perhaps.  Or California.  The good doctor was not known for liking police officers who pursued him.  

                After withdrawing from the park, her police radio had buzzed, ordering her to report back to her precinct.  The lieutenant wanted to see her.  Now she was here, cooling her heels outside his office.  She felt rather like a student sent to the principal's office.  

                The door opened.  The lieutenant poked his head out the door.  Detective Pierce swallowed.  

                "Come on in, Detective Pierce," he said.  

                She stood and entered the office calmly.  The scent of trouble was in the air.  A few other high-ranking officers stood around her.  They looked at her with little sympathy.  

                "Detective Pierce, perhaps you could tell us what you were doing mucking about in the park early this arvo," the lieutenant said.  

                Isabelle smiled nervously and then dropped the smile, as it didn't feel appropriate.  

                "I was pursuing a suspect," she said calmly.  

                "Ah, yes."  The lieutenant shuffled through some paper on his desk.  "You _do _know that there is a cannibal killer on the loose, don't you?"  

                "Of course," she said.  "That's what I was trying to do.  Track a possible suspect."  

                The lieutenant let out a theatrical sigh.  "Dr. Hamilton Litton, perhaps?"  

                From his tone, it was obvious that he did not believe her.  Isabelle cleared her throat.  

                "Yes," she said.  "Dr. Litton is an immigrant, and his file is rather sparse.  I wanted to talk to him."  _And see if his wife has scars on her back, _she added mentally.  "I also have some question as to whether Elaine Litton is everything she appears to be."  

                The lieutenant gave her a consternated look.  "Detective Pierce," he said thinly, "I just got a call from the bloody _mayor.  _He had gallbladder surgery a few years ago.  From Dr. Elaine Litton.  They're quite good friends now.   The Littons _know _people around here.  I had to explain to him what one of my detectives was doing at a park with the Cannibal Killer on the loose."  

                Perhaps it would be better to go for broke.  "I would like to fingerprint the Drs. Litton," she said.  "Bring them in and fingerprint them.  And examine Elaine Litton for scars on her back.  I believe that they are, in fact, Hannibal Lecter and Erin Lander, both of whom are wanted by the American FBI."   

                The lieutenant and the other officers digested that silently.  From the looks of it, they considered the request as likely as appointing her Prime Minister.    After a moment or two, the lieutenant spoke.  

                "Are…you…_mad?"  _he asked.  

                "Not at all, sir," she said politely.  

                "Bring in the Littons and fingerprint them?  You must be.   Do you _know _what would happen to us if we did that?"  

                "If they identify them as the people I believe them to be, then nothing at all," she said.  

                "And if you're _wrong, _we'll all be policing in some dusty little bush town, if at all.  Absolutely not.  The mayor is _quite _displeased to hear that you were mucking about in a park chasing down a mum and dad taking their boy to the park to play."  

                "But sir," she tried to continue, "Erin Lander fraudulently obtained German citizenship some years ago.  She's got a kidney transplant.  Elaine Litton never had an American driver's license.  What if she's doing it again?  What if she died in the USA and Dr. Lander got her identity?  She gets an identity that has citizenship so she can bypass the immigrations process, it would be a red flag to the FBI.  And I don't know _how _Dr. Lecter got around the fingerprinting process, but he did somehow."  

                "Enough!" the lieutenant said.  "There is simply no way that I am going to authorise you to bring in the Littons.  Bloody hell, we'd never hear the end of it from the mayor based on these…_daydreams _you've had."  His face turned red and he pointed a finger at her.  

                "But sir--," she said, knowing what he was going to say before he said it.  

                "Detective Pierce, I am giving you a formal order.  And these two men are my witnesses.  Your job is not to shadow a surgeon who's done no harm to anyone.  Or to shadow her husband.  Your job is to catch the Cannibal Killer.  You are to leave the Littons _alone.  _At all costs.  If I hear of you shadowing them again, you'll be suspended pending an investigation.  Do I make myself clear?"  

                Detective Pierce was more used to receiving accolades than discipline.  But she knew it was hopeless.  The Littons _did _know some big people.  Was this the clever act of a killer, isolating her before he…before he did what he'd done to Pazzi?  The thought of that made her shudder.  

                Or what if she _was _wrong?  What if the Littons were exactly what they appeared to be?  

                She'd never be able to find out, now.  Politics had won the day.  It seemed Dr. Lecter would continue to live right under her nose.  She thought of those merciless maroon eyes on her, asking her what she was doing going after his little boy, and found herself quite uneasy.  

                "Yes, sir," she said dejectedly.  

…

                Behavioral Sciences was calm when the first salvo in DeGould's battle took effect.  

                It was actually quite calm and quiet.  Several men in suits came calmly down to the department.  They did not make a fuss and they did not disturb anyone except for their target.  They went straight down to the office at the end of the hall.  This had been Jack Crawford's office until his death.  Now, it was occupied by his successor, Peter Conway.  

                The men entered the office.  Chief Conway looked up at them in surprise.  

                "Good morning," he said.  "Can I help you?"  

                One man stepped forward.  "Chief Conway, I'm Brad Dixon.  We're from the Office of Professional Responsibility."  His tone was curt and unfriendly.  

                Conway's eyebrows raised.  "Is there a problem?"  

                "I'm afraid so," he said.  "You're to come to a hearing tomorrow for the misuse of an FBI credit card."  

                Conway looked puzzled.  "May I ask what it's about?  I haven't done anything wrong with my credit card."  

                "According to this complaint," Agent Dixon said, "you used your FBI credit card three days ago to pay for a hotel room.  _And _hired…an escort, from an escort service."  

                A shocked look came over Conway's face.  He stared blankly from man to man.  None of them showed him any sympathy.  

                "But…but…I never…I…I didn't," he stuttered.  

                His cries did him no good.  The men paid him no heed.  Instead, they simply served him with the official paperwork.  They told him to be there the next day and to marshal whatever evidence in his own behalf that he had.   

                They were no easier the next day.  The evidence was pure and simple.  Chief Conway's FBI credit card had been used to pay for a hotel room suite and an escort.  Conway's defense was that he had not done it.  He was placed on administrative leave pending an investigation.  

                As Conway was escorted from the building, Rebecca DeGould picked up her phone and wondered.  It was so _easy _to get someone kicked out temporarily.  The FBI did not recognize due process for its own agents worth squat.  But that made her ultimate job easier.  

                She made two calls as she watched Conway go.  In a few days, once this was all said and done, she would make a few calls for him and get him a decent offer: pay back the money, retire quietly, and she could pull enough strings to get the OPR hounds off his back.  For now she had other moves to make.  

                DeGould's first call was to Bob Sneed.  Sneed thought it was great.  He'd enjoyed the hotel room and the hooker that DeGould had provided him.  He didn't seem to realize that he was now in her power, like it or not.  DeGould had hired an investigator and now had proof of Sneed being the one in the room.  She'd sit on it for now; she needed him in his job.    

                Her second call was to her second ally.  

                "Hi," she said calmly.  "This is Rebecca DeGould.  You remember me."  

                "Of course I do," the voice said.  

                "I'll be down in the late afternoon tomorrow to pick up Starling," she said.  "Carry out your side of the plan."  

                "Sure thing," the voice said, and hung up.  

                Rebecca DeGould hung up the phone, rested her head on her hands, and grinned.  Everything was going just _great_.  


	8. Insecurity

                _Author's note: Here we are.  You'll notice no DeGould subplot in this chapter.  She'll be along._

Dr. Hannibal Lecter rather enjoyed his deck.  After the years of incarceration, one of his favorite things to do was to lie back on a recliner on his deck with a drink in his hand and watch the harbor.  The water was relatively calm.  Out here, he could truly appreciate his freedom.  

                Michael liked the deck too; it extended over the water.  He had gotten to be big enough to dangle his feet in the water.  That was where he was now, wearing a bathing suit and a large life vest colored in shocking shades of neon blue and yellow.  Erin mandated a life jacket whenever he was out on the deck.  

                He sat next to his wife, watching his son shriek and giggle as he stuck his feet in the water.  A cool drink at his side refreshed him.  He cleared his throat.  

                "That detective will continue following us," he said.  

                "I'm not sure," Erin said nervously.  "I talked to the mayor.  He said he'd fix it."  

                Dr. Lecter exhaled.  "It's rarely that simple, Erin.  You know that.  Just because her superiors have told her to leave us alone will not get her off the case.  It _has _bought us some time."  

                Erin Lander closed her eyes and tightened her jaw.  She'd known life with Dr. Lecter would be the life of a fugitive.  But Dr. Lecter had killed no one for years now.  She'd saved countless lives in the locales they had lived in.  Didn't that count for anything?  Weren't there other people for the FBI to pursue, people who ran around killing other people _now_?  Wasn't there a point at which the authorities could leave them alone?  

                "You know what the best thing to do is," Dr. Lecter said.  "I can arrange it quite quietly.  

                Her jaw tensed again.  She knew what he meant.  

                "You _promised _me," she said.  "No more killing,"  

                "I promised not to kill whimsically," Dr. Lecter pointed out.  "Killing to defend my family strikes me as hardly whimsical."  

                Erin let air whistle through her teeth.  "Even if I let you out of your promise…and I'm _not _saying that I am, killing her would attract suspicion," she said.  "They'd be on us immediately.  And even so much as a fingerprint check on either of us is going to bring down a world of hurt on us.  Maybe if you send them an anonymous letter or something telling them who the cannibal killer is they'll quit bugging us."  

                Dr. Lecter considered.  "That makes sense, Erin, but I don't know who the cannibal killer is.  If I did, I should send the police an anonymous letter in a heartbeat."  

                Erin tensed and looked over at him.  Dr. Lecter supposed this was much worse for her.  All she had ever wanted was a peaceful home somewhere with him and with their son, where she could work and do her job.  Sydney had been such a place for them for three years now.  Michael had been an infant when they came here.  

                "Does he know we're here?"  Erin asked.  "The cannibal killer?"  

                Dr. Lecter had considered this already.  "No," he said definitively.  "He'd have tried to contact me if he did.  It's just a rather hideous coincidence.  But not so uncommon, really.  My work is well known.  There have been…copycats before this one.  One in Tokyo, one in London, and one in Los Angeles.  This fellow has a better grasp of my work than most, but the _Tattler's _shrieking that it is me is just that – shrieking.  Almost assuredly there are differences between his work and my own.  If I could get my hands on the case file, that would almost assuredly help."  

                "Not much chance of that," she said.  "Sydney PD has it."  

                "Presumably they may call in the Behavioral Science department of the FBI, once the body count gets high enough," Dr. Lecter observed bloodlessly, and had a sip of his amaretto sour.  

                "So?"  Erin's voice was just chilly enough to indicate that she knew what that meant.  

                "Perhaps Clarice might be willing to give me a copy of it, quietly," Dr. Lecter said.  

                Her voice grew a bit chillier.  "_No Clarice," _she said.  

                "Erin, please.  Clarice is not our enemy.  She promised to leave us to our peace."  

                She was unconvinced.  "She might have changed her mind.  It's been three years.  I don't want to take the chance."  

                "Clarice is not a liar," Dr. Lecter reproved.  

                "Clarice is an FBI agent.  It's her _job _to put us in jail.  She did it to me, once."  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  He could point out that Clarice had captured Erin and then bent over backwards to ensure that she was well cared for.  But that was not the root issue.  Clarice had turned him down; Erin had not.  Yet he still cared deeply for both women and always would.  

                "Erin, please," he said.  "Clarice is hardly a figure of evil."  

                "I never said she was," Erin said.  "But I don't want her knowing where we are.  It's a risk.  What if things aren't going well in her job and hauling us in would help her out?  Are you _sure _you want to risk your freedom, your life, your son, and your marriage that a woman you haven't even _seen _in three years is going to stick to a promise she made?"  

                "I don't think the issue is Clarice," he said mildly.  "Are you that threatened by her?"  

                She crossed her arms at him.  "Yes," she said.  "Do you think I don't know about how you run out to the newsstand by the airport to buy the American version of the _Tattler _every week?"  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  "I read the _Tattler _for sentimental reasons," he said.  

                "Because you hope there'll be an article about _her _in it.  When there are, you clip them out and put them in your desk.  I know that, too."  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  "You needn't be insecure," he said, and put his hand on hers.  "Clarice is simply someone I am fond of.  You are my wife."  

                He didn't think that it was enough.  Erin was usually insecure when the subject of Clarice came up.  He didn't see why. Clarice had turned him down, then he had gone to Erin and she had agreed to go with him.  He would not abandon her. 

                Michael Litton incurred a great deal of gratitude from his father by defusing the situation.  He did so by running up to them with a white shell clenched in his fist.  He waved it excitedly at them.  

                "Look, Daddy!  Look, Mummy!  I found a shell!"  

                Dr. Lecter smiled tolerantly down at his three-year-old.  Even now, he could hear Australian intonation in his son's words.  He supposed if they stayed here Michael would speak like everyone else. 

                "That's pretty," Erin told him.  "Go clean it off at the hose.  And wash your hands."  A surgeon herself, she was strict on the subject of cleanliness.  The little boy went obediently over to the spigot and washed his hands and his new treasure.   

                Their eyes met, but the brewing storm had been averted.  He supposed it would have to wait another day, but perhaps Erin could deal with her insecurities about Clarice in the near future.  He supposed he could see her side of it, but Clarice was no threat to Erin.  If they needed her help, he was confident that she would help.  He wondered what would happen if the situations were reversed.  Would Erin be there for Clarice if she needed them? 

                "Look," Erin said apologetically, "at this point, it's all blue sky anyway.  Clarice isn't involved.  But you don't know what she's been doing.  So much might have changed, and I don't want to risk it."  She essayed a smile.  "For all you know, she could be in prison."  

…

Her eight-hour shift in the laundry was finally over.  Dinner had been almost edible.  Clarice Starling headed for the shower room with her towel, soap and shampoo.  She found herself feeling good.  Even though she'd been in prison for only a few weeks, she'd already become accustomed to the boring rhythms of prison life.  You took your pleasures where you could.  She discovered she vastly preferred the gym to the noisy chaos of the TV room.  She'd worked up a good sweat and was looking forward to a shower and then her own bunk.  

                There were a few female guards posted in front of the shower room.  No males.  That was good; sometimes they would hang out by an almost-closed door and peep out like freakin' kids.  At first this had angered Clarice.  Now she thought it was simply pathetic.  Especially because she knew they'd be on her list.  

                Her list was a matter of concern.  Clarice wasn't a maximum-security prisoner, and she wasn't a behavioral problem.  Even so, they shook down her cell now and then.  She hated that as passionately as her cellmates did; their cell was the only semblance of privacy they had left.  She'd written some journal-type stuff on the first ten pages.  Hopefully most of the guards would think it was her diary.  So far she'd made it through the one shakedown.  Now the notebook resided where it always did when she wasn't using it.  She'd cut her pillow very carefully along one side and stuffed the notebook in there.  Now it resided there amongst the measly amount of Hollofil in the pillow.  

                She thought Linda was getting parole.  The quiet woman had been jumping up and down excitedly about something but had not wanted to discuss it.  She supposed it was partially for herself and partially for Brittany.  It would be sort of rude, after all – Brittany had to serve another twenty years before she was even eligible for parole, and Clarice, as far as Linda knew, was new herself.  Rubbing her freedom in her cellmates' faces would not do.  

                Clarice stopped at the door to the shower room and stripped obediently.  Two female guards watched her carefully, in case she was attempting to bring a razor blade or other weapon into the shower room.  Even after only three weeks of prison, she knew to bring her shower shoes.  Otherwise, the foot fungus she would get away with would long outlast her stay in the prison.  

                The guards made her run her fingers through her hair and open her mouth.  Clarice put up with it, fighting the urge to add them to her list of indictees anyway.  They _did _have a tough job to do, she supposed.  But her sympathy for them had really dropped to an all-time low.  

                Once cleared to clean herself up, Clarice pulled her jumpsuit back and proceeded into the steamy room.  The showers were barracks-style; just nozzles and controls sticking out of the wall.  Several inmates were already engaged in showering.  Clarice paid little attention to the women showering and they paid little attention to her.  A few of them slipped off together and embraced under one nozzle, but she had even gotten used to that and paid it no heed.  Their business, not hers.  

                She saw a free shower about halfway down the hall and stripped out of her jumpsuit.  She put her stuff on the wooden shelf nearby and turned on the water.  Brittany had advised her to get her own soap and shampoo, and she had been quite correct.  A few large, mannish women had offered to 'lend' her some, but she'd turned them down.  She had a feeling she knew what the price would be.  

                Clarice noticed her cellmate two showers down.  Idly, she wondered what to do.  Did you say hi or just ignore her?  Or should you wait until you were both dressed?  But the water was hot and pleasant on her skin, a rare pleasure here in this house of misery.  

                So she simply turned on the shower and had at it.  She was parsimonious with her shampoo; it cost a fortune, compared to what she was paid.  She lathered up and began to rinse.  Next to her, Brittany turned off the water at her own shower and began to dress.  

                _Something _amazingly hard and painful clocked Clarice on the side of the head.  She staggered, soap in her eyes and stars floating over her vision.  Her fingers swiped soap bubbles out of her eyes and she saw a blurred figure.  In the figure's hand was a towel.  _Probably a bar of soap in it, _her warrior's mind thought automatically.

                Was somebody on to her?  Shit.  She'd be getting it from both sides: the inmates would never trust her if they knew she was a cop.  The guards would have her head.  She'd have to be pulled out pronto.  But she had no time to worry about that now.    

                The other inmates yelled with pleasure to see the fight.  Clarice grabbed the figure's wrist and forced it to drop the towel.  A bar of soap spilled out, just as she had expected.  

                The guards ran in, yelling just as loudly, swinging their truncheons and warning the showering inmates to keep clear.  They grabbed Clarice and the other figure and had them handcuffed in a trice.  As soon as they were on her, Clarice stopped struggling and relaxed.  She let them stand her up.  

                Dripping wet, naked, handcuffed, and with soap in her eyes, Clarice Starling sighed.  

                "I'm not resisting," she said calmly.  "I was attacked.  I just defended myself, that's all.  Can I rinse the soap out of my eyes?"  

                There was a moment before one of the guards replied.  "Turn your head, Hanson."  

                Clarice complied.  There was a rush of water over her head.  She held her head out from under the spray.  The guards kept a firm grip on her arms, in case she tried to attack again.  She could hear the guards chatting, as if they didn't seem to grasp that she, too, could understand them.  

                "Awright," the guard snapped.  "C'mon, Hanson, you're going down to lockdown for the time being.  Then the lieutenant will decide what to do with you."

                Clarice tensed.  

                "Can I get dressed?" she asked.  

                "Once you're in lockdown," the guard said implacably, and then they were dragging her out of the shower room.  Clarice's face burned with shame as they marched her naked through the halls of the prison.  What was worse was that the guards seemed to enjoy it.  

                _Oh you sons of bitches, I hope you enjoy the federal lawsuits I slap on your ass, _she thought.  They brought her down one hall and then another.  There were a few barred gates and she was made to wait at each and every one.  Trying desperately to think of anything other than the humiliation she felt, she concentrated.  Was that another set of guard behind him, or just an echo?  No; different voices.  It was probably whoever had attacked her, which meant it was another inmate.  Had they let her dress?  

                The cells here were simple holes in the wall guarded by heavy steel doors.  They ran Clarice down the hall and banged her into the first free cell on the right.  Her jumpsuit was thrown in with her and landed on the floor, one arm reaching out beseechingly towards her as if begging to be worn.  The heavy steel door slammed shut, making Clarice jump.  She was still stark naked and still in handcuffs.  Rage and humiliation made her tremble.  

                After a moment, a voice buzzed over the speaker in her cell.  

                "OK," the voice said.  She thought it was a man, but wasn't sure.  "Tell you what. Back up to the cell door and I'll take your cuffs off you." 

                Clarice backed up, feeling her hands shake.  She wanted to strangle _somebody, _anybody.  

                "Now settle down," the voice urged, sounding cool and professional.  "Scootch down a little bit so you can feel the food slot.  I'm gonna open it now.  Watch your fingers."  

                The cell door was cold and hard against her skin.  She could feel where the slot was with her fingers.  It opened up and she could feel a hand on hers.  

                "Scootch down a little bit more for me, will you?" the voice said.   

                Clarice scootched.  

                "There you go."  A hand took her wrists, but not forcefully.  Then her left wrist was free.  Clarice pivoted, letting the guard keep her right wrist to get the cuff off.  Once he was done, she grabbed the jumpsuit and walked to the other side of the cell where she could dress in relative privacy.  She was shaking and furious and angry.  

                "I want some rank," she snapped without thinking about it at the voice.  

                "You'll get it," the voice promised.  "Lieutenant is gonna come down soon."    

                With that, he strode away.  No interest in whether Clarice needed anything, no real concern.  She was to stay here in this tomb until they decided she was fit to be let out.  Would they believe her that she'd been attacked?  Or was that snitching?  She'd already seen that snitching was the death sentence in prison.  Snitches were apostates, hated passionately in prison.  She _couldn't _snitch on who had attacked her – she didn't know.  

                Well, wait.  She glanced around the cell.  It was five feet by nine feet, with only a bunk and a toilet.  The door had a steel food slot and an observation window.  The slot was small, and she could see a sliver of the hallway.  Only the heavy door of the cell across from hers and a little bit of the hallway.  

                Clarice sighed and sat down on the bunk.  The mattress was thin and the bunk would be hard.  The guard returned with a roll of masking tape and a magic marker.  

                "Name and number," he said calmly.  

                Clarice gave him what he wanted.  Her voice sounded defeated and hushed to her.  The guard wrote it down on a strip of tape and attached it to her door.   

                "Now listen," he said.  "You're in enough trouble already for fighting.  Don't get to screaming with the other'n across the way.  We'll write you up for that too.  Just settle down and everything will be fine."  

                Clarice nodded.  The guard crossed to the other side of the hall and asked the same of the prisoner therein.  It occurred to her that her assailant must be in that cell.  Interested, she plastered herself up against the door and watched carefully as the guard attached the tape to the door.  She squinted, trying to read the name through the dirty glass.  What she saw surprised her.  

                _What the fuck?  _

Written across the tape was the name _TOLLMAN BRITTANY.  _

Clarice lay down on the thin bunk and stared up at the ceiling.  This made no sense at all.  She'd gotten along just fine with Brittany for three weeks, two of three women sharing a tiny, cramped cell. She'd never given any indication of offense to Clarice.  Why, then, had she attacked her in the shower?  

                It was incredibly boring in the cell, and it seemed like an eternity before the lieutenant finally got down there to investigate the matter.  The guards shackled her before she was let out of her cell.  Two of them flanked her as she was taken down to the lieutenant's office.  She hoped it wasn't Beck.  Anybody but Beck.  

                But her hope was in vain; lolling behind the desk was indeed Lieutenant Beck.  They were hauling Brittany out of the office as Clarice was being brought in.  Clarice turned her head as the smaller woman was being taken down the hall back to solitary.  

                "Brittany," she said.  

                Brittany's head was down and she was staring at her feet.  She did not respond.  

                "Brittany, why?  Why did you do that to me?"  

                Brittany's mouth quirked, but she did not answer.  One of the guards thumped Clarice's back.  

                "No talking, Hanson."  

                In the lieutenant's office, no one spoke for several minutes.  Clarice swallowed and realized just how vulnerable she was.  Her fate was completely in his hands.  

                Lieutenant Beck let out a theatrical sigh.  

                "Brawling in the shower room," he said slowly.  "So, what do you have to say for yourself, Hanson?"  

                Clarice crossed her ankles and tried to lean forward.  Sitting with handcuffs on was much more uncomfortable than she ever would've thought.  She smiled nervously.  

                "Well, sir," she said.  "I was just…showering, minding my own business, and I was attacked.  I defended myself, that's all."  

                Beck considered that.  

                "You were found holding on to the other inmate," he said.  

                "I was defending myself," she repeated.  "I have no idea why she attacked me."  

                Beck nodded.  "Riiiiiight," he said.  "Well, look.  You were both fighting, so you both get the same punishment.  One week in solitary.  Be smart, Hanson.  Make this the last time, not the first."  

                The guards pulled her to her feet.  

                "Wait," she said breathlessly.  "_She _attacked _me."  _

"She said you attacked her," Beck said, not interested in the least.  "Both of you are getting a week in solitary."  His eyes focused on the guards.  "Take her away."  

                Clarice went along with the guards.  If she didn't, she was just going to spend more time in lockdown.  But there was still a part of her that cried _No!  Not fair!  _ This was exactly the sort of thing she was supposed to be fighting. What was going to happen now?  Were they going to find her notebook?  Was she going to be allowed to have anything at all?  Was she going to have to spend a week in that tiny coffin with nothing to occupy her mind?  

                The heavy steel door of the cell slammed shut behind her, offering her no answers.  


	9. Enemy Mine

                The next meeting of the Cannibal Killer task force was rather interesting, Isabelle Pierce thought.  There was a forensic psychiatrist there.  She'd had some training in profiling and wanted to ask the fellow a question or two.  

                Yet still, being ordered off pursuing the Littons irked her.  There was so much that suggested that Dr. Hamilton Litton might be Hannibal Lecter.   His immigration records indicated that he had a scar on his left hand.  He was the right age and the right height and weight.  His face looked sort of like the cannibalistic psychiatrist's, but that meant little.  Elaine Litton was a surgeon; to make a new face for her husband or herself could not have been difficult.  Even her own face resembled the fugitive surgeon the FBI sought to some extent.  

                But now she was ordered to leave them alone.  She had no choice.  Damnable as it was.  She sat in the meeting room, watching the brass discuss the Cannibal Killer's latest victim.  He was one Anthony Page, age forty.  A singer in a local musical group called the Cockroaches.  How _very _pleasant.  Most of his innards had been removed with an expert hand.  All of the horrors performed on the man had been dryly noted on the pathologist's autopsy report.   

                The pathologist, one Dr. McGregory, stood up.  He was quite calm as he rattled off exactly what had been done to the unfortunate man.  Oddly, the autopsy report noted that the body cavity contained small flecks of what appeared to be the man's innards.  Had they been diced up? Also there was 'vegetable and grain pieces' found scattered throughout the interior of the abdomen.  Hmmm.   Isabelle put up her hand.  

                "Pardon me," she said.  "May I ask about the vegetable and grain materials found in the victim's body?"  

                The pathologist eyed her calmly.  

                "Of course," he said.  "There were small pieces of vegetable found in the victim's abdomen, where the organs had been."  

                "Well, yes, that's what it says here in the report," Isabelle acknowledged.  "Were they put in there by the killer, or were they perhaps from the victim's stomach?"  

                "Most likely put there by the killer," the pathologist said.  "I believe the vegetables were onions, and the grain material to have been oatmeal.  That's not verified through tests, though.  Just my opinion."  

                The psychiatrist stood up in front of them all, looking like exactly what he was:  an expert here to lecture the rabble.  

                "Good morning," he said calmly.  "If I may, I believe this to be a signal of the killer's contempt for his victims.  He used Mr. Page like a garbage can, if you will.  Once he'd removed what he wanted from the man, he used the body to get rid of the rest of the pieces."  

                Isabelle consulted her paperwork.  Dr. Reynolds was his name.   

                "Perhaps he did," she said.  "Was that for us, do you think?  Or just a sign of contempt for the deceased?"  

                The psychiatrist shrugged.  "I'm not sure," he said, observing her from pale blue eyes.  "He's never written the police or rang them up, has he?  I'm inclined to say contempt for the victim."  He ran a hand through straw-blond hair and eyed her more carefully.  "And you are…," 

                "Detective Isabelle Pierce," she supplied.  

                The psychiatrist nodded and leaned back against the desk, sitting on the edge.  "You've gone to the USA, haven't you?  I've heard of you before.  Steven Armington."  

                Isabelle smiled and nodded.  

                "Yes, right," she acknowledged.  "Have you had a chance to compare the murders we've had with a series of murders in the USA?  In Baltimore, specifically, twenty or so years ago."            

                Dr. Reynolds's eyes slid up as he tried to remember.  "Did you have anyone in mind?"  

                "Yes, I did," Isabelle said.  "Dr. Hannibal Lecter."  

                Reynolds chuckled.  "Hannibal the Cannibal?  Do you think he's set up shop in Sydney now?"  

                Isabelle frowned.  _Actually, yes, that's exactly what I think.  I think he's here with his wife and his little boy.  I think they hobnob with the wealthy here in Sydney and I think it's possible Dr. Lecter may depopulating the local ocker population._

"It's a possibility," she said archly.  

                The psychiatrist shrugged.  "Technically, yes.  However, from what I recall of his case, he's rather old.  Usually, offenders of this type don't continue offending into their old age."  

                He wasn't rude about it, and so Isabelle decided to tread carefully.  She couldn't go round shrieking 'Hannibal Lecter' from the rooftops when her superiors had ordered her to leave the Littons alone.  

                "Dr. Lecter is hardly the typical serial offender," she said.  "He was known to have killed at the age of sixty.  One Mason Verger and his associates."  

                The psychiatrist looked doubtful.  "Yes, but he didn't initiate that," he said.  "Verger came out after him.  He killed him once Verger tried to feed him to the pigs, wasn't it?  And besides, even so, that was almost ten years ago."  He stopped and eyed her suddenly.  "Do you have reason to believe that Dr. Lecter may be in Sydney?"  

                Isabelle suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Dr. Reynolds seemed to know a lot about his American colleague.  She gritted her teeth under Dr. Reynolds's level gaze.  

                "No," she admitted.

                On her scratch pad she noted: _Check into Dr. Reynolds. _

…

                Solitary was a most effective punishment.  Clarice realized this swiftly.   She had nothing to do but stare at the four walls.  Her breakfast had been served to her in her cell.  A bowl of cereal with milk, a cup of coffee, and a plastic tumbler of juice.  It had hardly been enough to do more than remind her that she was hungry.  Lunch was the same way.  They gave her a sandwich consisting of two squished slices of bread.  One slice of meat and a smear of mayonnaise between them.  A glass of juice – maybe six ounces.  Well, she sure wasn't gonna get fat in here.  

                It was interminably, insufferingly, boring.  She could understand now, far better than ever, why Dr. Lecter had been so dead set on escaping.  She'd asked for rank and asked about library books or something like that.  The guards didn't really care. To begin with, she was just another inmate.  To add to that, she was a disciplinary case.  She was here to be punished, and so they didn't feel any real urge to help stem the boredom.  

                Time moved slowly.  Dinner was served.  It, too, was meager and pretty gross.   Occasionally Clarice could hear another inmate in lockdown pounding on the door, screaming for something.  She found herself sympathizing sourly with them.  

                Around eight PM – or what Clarice _thought _was 8 PM, as she had no clock – she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Voices echoed against the concrete walls.  One was female.  The sound of heels clattering against the concrete also caught her attention.  

                "Yes, Lieutenant," the voice said, "I'm here to pick up one of our agents.  She's actually a federal agent here undercover."  

                Clarice grinned suddenly.  It was a little early, but hell, it was out of solitary.  Then she found herself pondering.  Had something happened?  

                "Yes, ma'am," a rough voice said.  A-_ha.  _It was Lieutenant Beck.  Even better.  Clarice got up and stood by her door, waiting eagerly.  She looked forward to flashing her FBI ID at Lieutenant Beck.  She looked forward even more to delivering a federal civil-rights summons to him.  

                Lieutenant Beck stopped by her door.  Clarice grinned.  Then he walked over to the cell _across _from hers and began to unlock it.  Clarice frowned and began to pound on the door. 

                "Hey!"  she said.  "You got the wrong damn cell.  I'm Clarice Starling."  

                Beck looked over at her.  She couldn't see the woman FBI agent; she was standing too far out of the way.  A cold smile came over Beck's face.  Brittany Tollman blinked owlishly as she walked out of her cell.  

                "Hey!  Get that agent over here!  You got the wrong damn prisoner!" Clarice shouted.  

                Beck came over to her door and looked in at her.  "Is there a problem?"  

                "Oh yes, there is," Clarice said.  _"I _am the FBI agent.  I'm Clarice Starling."  

                Beck beckoned for another few guards.  He glanced over at the unseen agent.  Then he looked back at Clarice.  

                "Turn around and cuff up," he said.  

                Clarice gave him a hard grin.  He wanted to cuff her up?  One last go-round to show who was boss?  Fine.  She'd still be out of here and he'd be indicted.  She let him cuff her through the food slot and let him take her down to the office.  She sat down in the hard, unpadded chair that was provided for inmates and waited.  

                Brittany Tollman entered the room, looking somewhat apprehensive.  She wasn't handcuffed.  Clarice eyed her curiously.  For her part, Brittany simply blushed and looked away.   Then the as-yet-unseen agent entered the office, closing the door behind her.  Clarice gasped.  A sinking feeling  of horror and fear invaded her stomach. 

                Standing in front of her, dressed in a stylish skirt suit and pumps, was a woman she knew.  Light reddish-blonde hair, patrician features, and gleaming green eyes.  

                Rebecca DeGould.  

                "So," DeGould said, "I understand _you _claim to be Clarice Starling…._inmate."  _Her voice was exceedingly cold.   

                Clarice's jaw sagged. This couldn't be.  It just…it couldn't. DeGould wasn't an FBI agent anymore.  She'd been discharged after being worked over by a loony with a crowbar.  And she had little to be angry with Clarice for.  Clarice could've filed charges with OPR on her.  After the ordeal the other woman had been through, she had elected to show mercy.  

                But it seemed Rebecca didn't see it that way.   She was glaring at Clarice as if Clarice had murdered her family.

                "Show me your inmate ID card," the woman demanded coldly.  

                Clarice's face worked.  "Rebecca, what the hell do you think you're doing?"  

                "Show me your inmate ID card," DeGould demanded.  She turned to Brittany.  

                "Agent Starling, wait outside, please."   Brittany complied submissively.  She gave Clarice one last guilty glance, then the door closed behind her, leaving Clarice alone with her tormentors.   

                "I don't have my card.  It was in my cell," Clarice said.  "DeGould, I don't know what you think you're doing.  You don't really think you'll get away with this, do you?"  

                "I've got her card," Lieutenant Beck smiled, and reached into his pocket.  He handed it to DeGould, who looked at it and smirked.  

                "Let's see," DeGould said calmly.  "This looks like you."  She held up the card and showed it to Clarice.  Clarice's lips twisted as she saw her own picture.  Next to it was the name _Brittany Tollman.  Sentence:  25 years to life.  _

"You bitch," Starling said, her face twisting.  "I let you go, you know.  I could've gone after you in OPR."  

                Surprisingly, DeGould did not look smug or cocky.  She looked angry herself, as if _she _had a grievance against Clarice.  She brushed her hair back from her temple.  Clarice could see an ugly red scar there, curving back into Rebecca's hairline.  That was where, a few years ago, Gregory Lynch had beaten her with a crowbar.  

                "You let me _go_?!" she spat back.  "After your cannibal boyfriend sicced his pet psycho on me?  I _know _you masterminded that, Starling.  Lynch owned up to it.  He's paid the piper.  Lecter's turn will come, too.  But now it's time for _you _to pay for what you did to me."  DeGould's face turned hectic and red.  "You know, I always knew you were a backwoods hick, Starling, but I _never _thought you capable of doing something like that.  You're a woman yourself.  And you have the _nerve _to say you let me go?  You lying, two-faced _bitch! _"  

                She stepped forward then.  Her right fist snapped back and then pistoned forward into Clarice's mouth.  She wore a few rings on her fingers.  She punched harder than Clarice might have thought for a small woman.  Clarice's head snapped back.  Stars danced before her eyes.  She could feel her lips tear on DeGould's rings and tasted her own blood. 

                "Throw her back in the hole," DeGould told Beck.  "I don't care what you do with her.  Just keep her locked up tight."   She leaned down over Starling and her face twisted.  

                "See you in twenty years, _Clarice,_" she said.  The door slammed shut behind her.  

                Clarice Starling raised her head and glared at Beck in utter hatred.  

                "You can't _possibly _do this," she said.  "You know you're going down for this."  

                Beck chuckled.  

                "I told you before," he said.  "You do for us, we do for you.  You _don't _do for us, we don't do for you.  Now look.  She was a nice kid, she made a mistake.  She shouldn't be here for life.  She could make the most of a second chance."  He chuckled coldly again.  "But _you…_planning to sting _my _officers?"  He shook his head coldly.  "My officers work hard, every day.  They get paid very little money to take care of these dangerous _animals. _ My first concern is their safety and security.  A bunch of do-gooder Feds coming around here pisses me off a _lot. _ Too bad for you that the Fed here just got taken out of here."  

                Clarice glared at him, aware how powerless she was.  But she was going to get this straightened out.  Then Beck did something that made her blood run cold.  From a drawer, he took her notebook.  The notebook that she had been keeping her notes in.  The notebook that detailed who she would be recommending charges for and for what.  

                "Now this notebook," he said.  "Plans for assaulting an officer?  Tsk, tsk."  He shook his head.  "Another thirty days in the hole for you."  

                "You're going to prison for this, you know that," Clarice promised.  "Let me go now, and I'll drop false imprisonment and kidnapping charges.  Don't make it worse than it is."  

                He laughed.  "Am I?  You forget something.  We've got home court advantage.  _We _control the records.  Not you.  If we say it didn't happen, it didn't happen.  Nobody's going to be able to help you.  You belong to _us _now.  You've got twenty years to go before you're eligible for parole, so you might as well think about how you're going to act.   Now you're going back to your cell for the next thirty-six days…_Brittany."  _

Clarice knew she had to fight.  She knew it was ridiculous.  This couldn't be happening.  No way could this last.  Absolutely no way.  She would fight them tooth and nail.  

                But they had the numbers, and after they had five officers pile into the office to grab her, her struggles were fruitless.  She was shackled hand and foot and dragged to the cell across from where she had been quartered.  Brittany's cell.  

                When the door slammed behind her, they took her cuffs off.   Two women stood in front of her.  Brittany Tollman, dressed in _her _suit, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  She did not meet Clarice's eyes.  Rebecca DeGould stood beside her, her hand on Brittany's arm.  _She _had no such compunction, staring triumphantly at the woman in the tiny cell.  It was just like her, Clarice thought.  Just as she had once tried to do with Dr. Lecter's wife.  She picked people whose backs were against the wall, who would do what she wanted because the alternative was so dire.  DeGould turned and began to walk away with Brittany in tow.  Clarice immediately began to pound on the door.  

                "I'm Clarice Starling!" she screamed.  "You can't do this to me!  I'm Clarice, goddammit!  I'm Clarice Starling!  _I'M CLARICE STARLING!!"  _

But despite all her pounding and all her screaming, it accomplished not a thing.  No one came to let her out.  A convicted murderer was walking out in her place, wearing her clothes.  She remained here, locked down in the hole where no one cared.  Eventually her strength flagged and her fists and feet ached.  She crawled over to the bunk, tears in her eyes and her throat raw.  

                "I'm Clarice Starling," she croaked.  No one heard.  


	10. The Plan

                _Author's note:  _

_                Well, making up the DeGould subplot that we skipped out on – this ended up so long that it's better to have it as a chapter itself.  We'll check in on the GD in Oz and Clarice in solitary soon enough.  For now, let's meet the bad guys…_

Rebecca DeGould was quite pleased with the way things were going.   Switching Clarice and Brittany had worked out easier than she'd thought.  Of course, Lieutenant Beck had been _more _than willing to cooperate.  After all, Clarice had meant to charge some of his officers.   Making new ID cards had been simplicity itself.  

                But it would take more to finish the job.  The prison's records now indicated that Clarice Starling was Brittany Tollman.  DeGould had to take care of the outside world.  That was what she was doing now.  She had a fingerprint card that was already labeled and another one that was blank.  Carefully she filled in the name and date.  _Clarice Starling, 5/1/1991.  _Clarice's first fingerprint card with the FBI.  Sneed had pulled it from Central Records for her.  

                Brittany Tollman sat in front of her, staring nervously back and forth.  She'd been like that ever since DeGould had pulled her out of the prison.  After five years in prison, she didn't seem to quite have the hang of how the free world worked.  DeGould had needed to feed the kid dinner, as she didn't know much about cooking herself.  She'd given her Clarice's keys and driven her over to Clarice's duplex.  Eventually, the kiddo would have to get a driver's license with her photo.  But that could wait.  

                Sneed came in with a young black woman about Brittany's age.  She looked equally spooked.  Rebecca looked up and smiled.  

                "Here you are," Sneed said calmly, and handed her another set of fingerprint cards – one already printed, one blank.  Across the top of this one was the name _Ardelia Mapp 5/1/1991.  _

"Ah," Rebecca said to the black woman.  "Have a seat.  Good to see you.  Please close the door first."  

                The woman looked nervously to and fro.  Rebecca sighed.  Jailbirds.  They acted like the world around them was so damn new.  Then again, she considered, Brittany Tollman had been jailed a few months after she graduated high school.  

                "Brittany, I want you to meet Kiera Washington," she said cuttingly.  "Kiera, this is Brittany Tollman.  Now, that is the _last _time I expect to hear _either _of you use those names in public.  From now on, _you're _Clarice Starling," she pointed at the white woman, "and _you're _Ardelia Mapp."  She sat up behind her desk in order to lecture her two duplicates.  

                "Both of you are in the same position," DeGould said.  "Both of you were sentenced to very long prison sentences.  Both of you were forgotten after that.  As a result, both of you have a very strong incentive to do what your Auntie Rebecca says."  She chuckled.  "Both of you would probably like a second chance, and I decided to give that to you."  Her eyes gleamed.  "For one thing, I need both of you to put your fingerprints on these cards here."  She held out Clarice's blank card towards Brittany.  Obediently, Brittany held out her hand.  Rebecca took an inkpad and carefully inked Brittany's fingerprints onto the cards in the appropriate fashion.  Once she was done with that, Kiera's prints were put onto the card for Ardelia Mapp.  

                "Look," Rebecca said.  "What I want out of you two is very simple.  For a few weeks, you're going to play Clarice Starling and Ardelia Mapp.  I have leave forms all set up for you; all you have to do is sign them, and so you won't have to come around here.  You'll have to make a few appearances.  Particularly you, Brittany, you'll need to give a short report to the Senator.  That's this afternoon."  

                Brittany's eyes widened with fear.  "A _Senator?  _I can't do that."  Her voice betrayed a Southern accent.  Not West Virginia cow country like Starling's, DeGould thought.  According to her records, she hailed from Gainesville, Florida.  But a hick accent was a hick accent.  The Senator was from Detroit; wasn't like she would be able to tell the difference.  

                "Yes, you can," DeGould said indifferently.  

                "Miz DeGould…please," Brittany said.  "I don't know how you think you're gonna do this, but I can't pass for Clarice Starling.  There's no way."  

                "Oh, yes, you can," DeGould repeated.  "I'm going to take you to the hairdresser later, and we're gonna get that hair dyed and cut in the right style.  Some blue contact lenses, a little makeup, and you'll look close enough.  The Senator doesn't know Clarice _personally.  _I'll be there with you; everything will be fine.  Just stick to the notes I gave you."  

                Brittany nodded, her eyes wide.  

                DeGould tapped away at her computer.  She'd been able to get access to the FBI's fingerprint archives.  Deleting records was impossible, but editing them was not.  Sneed had managed to finagle an administrator's username and password for her.  Now she had the ability to access the entire system.  

                She pulled up the record for CLARICE M STARLING and calmly edited the name and vital information on it.   A few minutes passed while she worked.  When she was done, it now read BRITTANY TOLLMAN and was now stored in the STATE PRISONERS category rather than the FEDERAL EMPLOYEES category.  DeGould grinned.  Swapping Brittany's record for Clarice's was similarly easily done.  Once that was done, she did the same for Kiera and Ardelia.  

                "There we go," Rebecca said sweetly.  "Now listen to me, girls.  According to the system, you're Clarice and Ardelia.  Keep your head about you and you'll do fine. You don't need to do that very long, either.  Very shortly, you'll have done your jobs for me.   Once that's done, you'll both be given new identities and jobs, and you'll be able to blend right into Middle America just fine.  You can go back to Florida for all I care.  Both of you will have a second chance.  A chance _no one else _will give you."  

                Then her eyes gleamed malevolently.  Better that her two little twits knew the price of failure.  

                "I know you're wondering what's going to happen to the real Mapp and Starling," she said.  "Now listen up, girls, because this _does _concern you."  She leaned forward.  Both Brittany and Kiera eyed her nervously, like wide-eyed schoolgirls instead of convicted felons.  

                "I know you're wondering how I plan to do this.  You don't need to know everything.  What you do need to know is that in large measure, I already _have.  _According to the system, you are Ardelia and Clarice, and Brittany and Kiera are back in their respective prisons serving their respective prison terms.  Both of you ought to know damn well what a prisoner counts for against what the system says."  She chuckled.  "How many prison lieutenants would believe a cockamamie story like 'I'm an FBI agent whose identity was switched'?"  

                Both girls looked at each other and then DeGould.  They both knew.  As prisoners, they had counted for nothing.  They knew perfectly well the fates of the women with whom they had switched identities.   No one would believe them, least of all anyone who worked in corrections.

                "Now," she said.  "Neither of you are Kiera Washington or Brittany Tollman any more.  Kiera is back in Broward CI.  Brittany is back in Bedford Hills.  But that's just for now, ladies."  

                DeGould smiled coldly.  "They're not going to stay there for much longer," she said.  "Have either of you heard of Chowchilla?"  

                Brittany shook her head.  Kiera nodded.  

                "That's a prison in California," she said.  "I knew a few people who were down in there."  

                "Yes," DeGould said.  "Very good.  Glad to hear you know about your prisons."  Then she continued, adopting a pedantic tone.  "Brittany Tollman and Kiera Washington are going to be transferred there in the next few months.  They'll get a lot of tickets for fighting, and once they've proved incorrigible, off they go."  

                Brittany looked slightly puzzled.  "Can they _do _that?  I was in New York an' she was in Florida."  

                DeGould chuckled.  "Oh, yes, they can," she said.  "Tell me, Brittany, did you know Pamela Smart when you were at Bedford Hills?"  

                Brittany nodded shyly.  "Well…I knew who she was, but I wasn't friends with her or nothing," she said.  

                "Okay.  Pamela Smart wasn't from New York and didn't commit her crimes in New York.  She was from New Hampshire.  Did you know _that?" _DeGould asked, smiling pleasantly.  

                Brittany shrugged, looking like a student who was trying to pay attention to the lesson but not grasping it.  

                "She was transferred to New York under the Interstate Inmate Compact," DeGould explained.  "Trust me, girls, I know what I'm doing.  Now.  Brittany Tollman and Kiera Washington are going to become _very _bad girls.  Then it's off to Chowchilla.  Specifically, their SHU.  You girls know what that is, don't you?"  

                "The hole," Brittany said, and shivered.  

                DeGould nodded.  "Exactly.  Solitary confinement.  But there is one big difference.  You two were mostly well behaved in prison.  Brittany, you picked up one write-up three years ago that bought you a week in solitary.  Since then you've pretty much been clean.  Kiera, you look about the same, one minor disciplinary case a couple of years ago, nothing since.  But in Chowchilla, once you're in the SHU you have to convince a prison committee that you deserve to get out.  Effectively," she grinned, "once you're in you tend to stay there."  

                "Listen up, you two, and listen good.  There are going to be two people going to the SHU in Chowchilla shortly, where _no one _will know them, _no one _will care about them, and they'll spend the next few years in solitary confinement – at least until their brains turn to mush.  That can be Starling and Mapp.  If either of you screw up, it'll be you.  Make Auntie Rebecca happy, and she'll make your lives very pleasant.  Make Auntie Rebecca angry, and you'll spend the rest of your life in a little concrete box that'll make the prisons you came from seem like Disneyland."  

                Both her ex-prisoners looked at each other and then at each other.  She could see the fear on their faces.  Good, they'd pay attention.  That was what she wanted.  

                Rebecca DeGould was quite pleased with how things were going.  She wasn't worried about Starling getting out anytime soon.  Beck had promised her that the DNA samples at the prison had been switched.  She'd switched Clarice's fingerprint records with Brittany's herself.  Even assuming Clarice could beg her way into a court, any judge in the state would laugh hysterically at her story.  The system said Clarice was Brittany; therefore she was.  She'd taken out Ardelia Mapp purely for strategic reasons.  Ardelia was best qualified to identify Clarice as Clarice.  But now she, too, was safely in cold storage down in Florida.  The first time, DeGould realized, she had neglected to account for Starling's allies.  Now she would wipe them off the map to ensure her victory. 

                Ah well.  They'd meet up in the SHU in Chowchilla.  Maybe they'd be able to scream to each other from cell to cell.    

                And Brittany was now Clarice.  That meant she had some work to do.  DeGould shoved a piece of paper across the desk.  

                "I need you to sign that," DeGould said sweetly.  Brittany's fingers trembled as she reached for the pen.  DeGould smiled.  She'd put the fear of God into them.  Now it was time to show the softer side.  

                "It's all right," DeGould said comfortingly.  "Look, as long as you two do what I want you to, you'll be just fine.  And I don't need you for very long.  Brittany, in a couple of months, you'll be settled somewhere quietly.  You'll have a new identity,  a job…a second chance.  I'll help you through everything."  

                "What's this you want me to sign?" Brittany asked in a hushed tone.  

                "A promotion order," DeGould said.  "You're going to be the Chief of Behavioral Sciences now that Conway is gone.  You're going to make me the Deputy Chief.  There you are, right there, sign it Clarice M. Starling.  Did you practice the signature last night like I told you to?"  

                "Yes, ma'am," Brittany said docilely.  

                "_Very _good," DeGould said, and took back the paper.  The signature was good enough, she surmised.  "Kiera, Sneed will take you back to the duplex.  Don't pick up the phone.  Just have fun.  There's TV, and all that."  She chuckled.  "Make sure you two call each other Clarice and Ardelia in the house.  I'll pick you up and feed both of you once we're done with the Senator." 

                Sneed made a friendly gesture and the young black woman left with him.  DeGould went to get her coat and Brittany's.  She realized that Clarice had worn this coat the first time DeGould had gotten her suspended from the FBI and grinned.  

                "Now come on," she said to the trembling young woman.  "We have a hair appointment for you and a Senator to meet."  

                The hairstylist expertly cut and dyed Brittany's hair so that she resembled Clarice enough to pass.  After that, a set of electric blue contact lenses changed Brittany's eyes to the proper color.  DeGould was pleased with the result.  If you didn't know Starling well – and the only one who did was Mapp – it was easy to be fooled.  And in the experience of Rebecca DeGould, most Senators weren't that bright.  

                The Senator proved to be exactly as dumb and grandstanding as DeGould had thought she would be.  Brittany told her what she wanted to hear, sounded suitably like she was a hick, and the Senator suspected nothing.  DeGould thought the stupid pinko was so happy about hearing about abuses in prisons she didn't even bother to think she'd been fooled.  

                Of course, DeGould thought, once Brittany had finished her report, the guards of Bedford Hills would be completely exonerated of any wrongdoing at all.  The Senator would be mad about that.  But that was neither here nor there.  Once Brittany had finished her report, she would resign Clarice Starling's position in the FBI.  She'd be resettled in New York City with a paid apartment and a job doing something secretarial in the brokerage house that DeGould's father ran.  There, she'd be free, but DeGould would also be able to keep an eye on her.  Same deal with Kiera.  

                After that, DeGould thought, she'd have to get herself a couple of bodies.  That wasn't too hard; she had connections in New York City and Washington.  Some morgue somewhere would be willing to lose a couple of bodies for the right amount of money.   She would put the bodies in the duplex, pour some whiskey on the bed, drop a cigarette next to it, and burn the place down.  Poor Clarice Starling, smoked a cigarette and drank in bed, and the place just went right up.  Her and Mapp both dead.  Meanwhile, the woman herself would be safely ensconced in a solitary-confinement cell three thousand miles from anyone who could help her. It was so perfect.  

 Rebecca DeGould closed her eyes and imagined Clarice Starling weeping in her solitary confinement cell, knowing that no one on earth cared about her.  Dr. Lecter had forsaken her for his little surgeon wife.  Mapp would be a few cells over, but equally helpless to help her.  No one else would be there for Clarice.  There, she would be locked away, suffering day after day, until madness closed in.  


	11. Renewing Ties

                _Author's note:  Since DeGould seems to be on the unpopular side of things for some reason, you get another DeGould-free chapter.  (She's still plotting away, though.)  And it's time to actually meet our copycat killer…_

                Clarice decided shortly after her betrayal that she'd been entirely wrong before.  

                Before, she'd had markedly little sympathy for them.  If you did the crime, she'd always thought, you should do the time.  If there weren't books or exercise equipment, that was just too bad.  But now, she found herself earnestly sorry for what she'd thought.  No one deserved _this.  _

She wasn't even sure how much time had passed.  She was a stranger to the sun.  Hours and hours passed in her cell.  She would hear women screaming and crying behind their own cell doors.  Occasionally they would pound.   Clarice didn't.  She knew it would be no help.  

                Beck occasionally grinned at her victoriously through the door when he passed by.  She knew that she had to do something.  She had to think of something.  But there seemed to be so little she could do.  She was locked in here, abandoned and forgotten.  She was supposed to get an hour on a single-woman rec yard a day, but she didn't always get it.      

                Nobody knew she was here.  Nobody cared.  Most of the guards were simply drones; they fed her, they gave her supplies, and they ignored her.  She'd seen them ignore some of the most pathetic pleas for mercy Clarice had ever heard.  It was harrowing.  How could they be so hard-hearted? Someone pleading for toilet paper and the guards didn't care.  For God's sake.  

                Part of her wanted to simply go mad; another part of her wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again.  Another part of her wanted to simply throw herself against her cell door and bang on it until someone paid some kind of attention to her.  And a third part of her simply wanted to slip into madness.  

                On her fourth day in solitary, she made herself concentrate.  It was hard; being locked in a tiny cell and left here. It was hot and there was no air conditioning, or even movement of air for that moment.  Her stifling little cell was enough to drive her mad.  

                Clarice did what she had to do to make herself think.  She stripped off her jumpsuit and ran water in her small steel sink.  First her towel went in the sink, and she wiped herself down with that.  It was incredibly cold against her fevered skin. Then she wadded up her jumpsuit and shoved that into the cold water.   She took off her cheap cloth sneakers and wiped down her bare feet.  

                _OK, _she thought.  _I'm Brittany now; Brittany's me.  DeGould got her out instead of me.  What do I have to do now?  How do I get myself out of this?  _

There wasn't anything she _could _do.  She was abandoned, locked in here forever.  

                _Quit thinking like that, _she told herself.  _I need a phone call.  That's what I need.  I need to get on the phone and get someone to help my ass out of this mess.  _

Phone call.  OK.  That would work.  Beck wouldn't give her one, but Beck hadn't been around today.  He _had _to have a day off sooner or later.  Was that today?  She had to find out.  Clarice approached her door and cleared her throat.  She knew there was someone in the cell next to her, but didn't know who or what.  This was weird.  

                "Hey," she said in a strong and clear voice.  "Hey, you awake over there?"  

                A Hispanic-accented voice replied from her left.   

                "Yeah, I am," it said.  "Whatchoo want?"  

                "I'm Claire.  How're you?"  

                "Lousy.  Ain't you?" It was damned _weird _talking to a disembodied voice.  

                "Yeah," Claire said.  "Do you know if Beck is on today?"  

                "Nah," the voice said.  Clarice's stomach fell. The voice continued.  "He's off today.  Fridays and Saturdays he's off.  You got something going on with him?"  

                _OK, _Clarice thought.  _No Beck today.  Good deal.  _

"Any of these officers willing to let me call my lawyer?"  

                The voice thought.  "You mean officially or…you gonna do something for him?"  

                Clarice stopped.  She knew damned well that sex was often the medium of trade among inmates.   Beck had made his desire to make her his little love-puppy obvious, before she'd been unmasked and abandoned.  She'd never, never done such a thing.  She still didn't _want _to. 

                On the other hand, she thought, some guards seemed better than others.  If she _had _to do this in order to get a phone call quick, better it be one of the guards who treated the guards decently than someone odious like Beck.  If Beck was off today, she'd have today and tomorrow and that was it.   

                "We'll see," Clarice said.  

                It galled her to do this, but she didn't see any other way.   She wanted a phone call now.  Maybe she wouldn't have to go too far down that slippery slope.  So she stood at her door and waited until lunch was served.  She eyed the guard handing the tray through her food slot.  Parker.  This guy was relatively decent.  He didn't yell at the prisoners or call them bitches as a lot of guards did.  Well, better him than Beck.  

                "Hey," she said.  "Can I call my lawyer?"  

                "No phone calls during meals," he said.  

                Oh boy.  This made her nervous.  She smiled lasciviously and licked her lips.  

                "Look," she said.  "This is my first time in solitary…I'm a good girl, really.   I just wanna call my lawyer."  She essayed a fake grin and felt suddenly very dirty.  Now, she thought, she could understand much, much better what Brittany had been talking about.  If you had to be reduced to this, maybe it was better to choose whom you did it with rather than have it forced on you.  

                 "We'll see," he said.  

                "I can show you how good a girl I can be," Clarice said, and felt her stomach knot.  

                The guard chuckled.  "Well," he said.  Was he going to spurn her and simply leave her in her cell?  Had Beck passed some sort of order on her?  _Leave Brittany Tollman alone, she's gonna be my little love-monkey.  _

Those thoughts flashed through her mind quickly.  The guard simply chuckled.  _Oh please, oh please, _she thought.  _Let me get a phone call.  That's all I want.  _

"We gotta finish feeding," the guard said.  "I'll see you later, how about?"  

                Clarice knew she should feel slightly dirty, at the least.  But she didn't.  She wanted a phone call.  She _needed _a phone call.  If this was what it took to get her what she wanted, that was fine.  She'd do as little as she could to get away with it.  A little hugging, a kiss, maybe.  It couldn't be _that_ bad.  

                She ate her tasteless meal with some trepidation.  Half an hour later, the guard showed up at her door again.  He grinned nervously as he unlocked her door.  

                She let him cuff her without complaint.  They set off down for the lieutenant's office without a word.  Clarice found herself blushing as she walked past the rows of cells.  A few women therein looked out at her.  

                In the office, he took her cuffs off and closed the door.  Clarice swallowed.  

                _I am doing this for myself, _she told herself.  _And no matter what, I will never, never do this for Beck.  _

In the end, it wasn't as bad as she thought.  A little kissing, a little groping.   Both of their clothes stayed on.  High school stuff, really.  Clarice closed her mind and found herself wondering, oddly, what Hannibal Lecter would have thought of this.  She thought he would disapprove.  Then again, he'd supposedly stuck his handcuff key up his butt to hide it, so they thought.  He could shove his disapproval up his butt, too.  

                Then he took her down to the small phone room and locked her in.   It was the size of a closet, with only a wooden bench on one side and a phone on a shelf on the other.  A thick wooden door kept her confined.  Clarice found herself quite pleased with herself.  OK.  When she got out of this she'd let Parker go.  

                She dialed a number swiftly and waited nervously.  This was a phone that wasn't tapped.  But then again, what if they _did?  _

                "FBI, New York Office," a busy voice said.  

                "Hi," Clarice said.  "I need to talk to Agent Paul DaSilva."    

                She felt a twinge of nervousness. What if DaSilva was in on it?  What would she do then?  She couldn't do twenty years in here.  

                "One moment," the busy voice said, and Clarice heard hold music.  A few moments later, a gruff voice with a Brooklyn accent spoke in her ear.  

                "DaSilva."  

                Clarice grinned and felt tears rise to her eyes at the same time.  

                "Agent DaSilva," she said.  "It's Clarice Starling."  

                "Hey!"  He sounded happy.  "Heard you got out.  How you doing?"  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  "Paul," she said.  "They _didn't _let me out.  They let someone else out.  I'm still in Bedford Hills.  They switched my identity with someone else.  I've got enemies, Paul, and I'm here in solitary confinement."  

                He sounded honestly stunned.  "What?" he breathed.  

                She started to cry despite herself.  "I had to just make out with a guard to get a phone call," she said, her voice thickening.  "Paul, _please.  _If you ask the FBI they'll tell you they got me out, but they _didn't.  _They're holding me here under the name of Brittany Tollman.  Can you come see me?"  

                "Your cellmate?" 

"Yep." 

"But…but…who the hell did this?"  

                "I'll explain when you come see me," she said.  "Please.  Paul, I'm in a real jam here.  I need your help."  She shuddered and put her hand on the concrete wall.  "Will you…will you help me?"  

                There were a few seconds of silence, in which Clarice Starling died a few thousand deaths of fear. Would he simply say _Yeah, right, _and hang up on her?  Would he believe her?  Would he help?  

                "When you came out," he asked dubiously, "where did we take you for breakfast?"  

                Clarice grinned.  "It wasn't breakfast, it was lunch," she said.  "I had chicken marsala.  I think you had penne."  

                He sounded more sure.  "Okay.  I'll come on down and see what I can do."  

                "Thank you," Clarice gasped, more grateful to hear that sentence than she had ever been before.  "When will you be here?"  Only once she had said it did she think it might sound pesty.  

                "Tomorrow, maybe," he said.  "Does that work for you?"  

                "Course it does," she whispered.  "Thank you, thank you so much, Paul."  

                Then she hung up the phone and let Parker take her back to her cell.  She sat down on her bunk and cried.  It wasn't the first time she had cried in her cell, but it felt a thousand times better.  Before, there had been tears of despair.  Now, she cried tears of relief.  

…

                The killer was pleased.  

                The police could try and catch him, but he was safe.  Quite safe.  They could spin their wheels all they liked.  There was no chance of him ever being caught.  He was far smarter than they were.  

                That Detective Pierce made him wonder, though.  She seemed pretty bright.  She'd also been to the USA once to be trained by the Yanks.  All the same, she seemed hung up on the idea that Hannibal Lecter was in Sydney.  At first he thought the idea was bloody silly.  But then it occurred to him that it might be possible.  All the same, she knew about all that profiling bit the American FBI did so well.  If she ever got off this Dr. Lecter-is-here kick, she would have to disappear very quickly.   

                His home was Spartan.  A visitor – if there had ever _been _a visitor in the house, which there hadn't – would have wondered if the house was actually occupied or a model.  The kitchen was a study in cleanliness and angles.  The living room resembled a model home where no one lived.  The order pleased him.  

                On his bookshelves were copies of all twelve true-crime books written about Hannibal Lecter.  He'd been a young man in school himself when he first learned about the murderous psychiatrist.  Something in the man's crimes had touched him.  He'd already known by then that he was different from others.  He felt no remorse and never had.  He didn't quite understand why he should.  He still didn't.  

                But ah, Dr. Lecter, now _there _was someone to look up to.  Pictures clipped from the newspapers – both American and Australian – decorated his scrapbook downstairs.  He'd also printed out some pictures from the Internet; you could do that these days.  Dr. Lecter did not care what society dictated.  He, too, had no conscience.  The lack thereof had not bothered him.  He was a true hero, the killer thought.  

                His first few murders had been simple, quiet things.  At the time, he'd driven far from home in order to pull them off.  It had been relatively easy to find himself victims.  He'd pick them up, bring them home, kill them, and carefully remove parts from them.  Getting rid of the bodies was simpler.  He drove the bodies far out into the bush on weekends.  He wasn't worried about anyone finding his original victims.  All that would remain of them now was a few bones marked by dingo teeth.  

Now he didn't worry about such things.  He found his victims just as he had before.  The police found the bodies eventually, but he was still unruffled.  They weren't quick enough to catch him.  He knew that very well.  The only one that worried him was Pierce.  And he could take care of her if he needed to.  

                Calmly, he took his keys and headed out to his car.  As he got into his car, he thought back to his first few murders.  He had killed other men.  His idol had mostly done the same.  But Dr. Lecter's third victim had been a woman.  Perhaps it was time for him to do the same.  

                He wanted to emulate his idol, and he would do so.  His meal this time would have to be a fine, high-class victim. He knew who he wanted; he'd seen her before.  What to choose?  He would need to select that once he had her in his grasp.  Kidneys?  Liver?  Spleen?  He'd heard that all three could be quite tasty once prepared properly.  

                His car was older but well maintained.  It purred along nicely.  Eventually, he would like to own a better car.  A Bentley, perhaps, to be more like his idol.  For now, the older Ford would have to do.  He kept it astringently neat, just as his home was.  No litter or other detritus was to be found anywhere inside the vehicle.  In his trunk, he had a roll of garbage bags neatly arranged in a corner.  There was also a working kit:  a blackjack, a crowbar, some rope, rags, and an extra set of clothes.  

                He saw his prey driving along the Harbour Bridge.  He knew her schedule fairly well.  He could intercept her without too much issue.  It was a simple matter to slide his big Ford behind the Mercedes.  She had the top down, and her hair blew in the wind.  

                She was heading towards Watson's Bay.   The killer knew that she lived there.  He did not intend to take her here.  No; far better to do it quietly.  He followed her along, staying back far enough that she would not be suspicious.  When she turned in at the large white mansion on the water, the killer found himself somewhat shocked.  He saw the name _Litton _on the mailbox, and he knew his prey was well-off, but the sheer magnificence of the residence amazed him.  

                He cruised along past the house with nary a care in the world and drove for a few kilometers.  Then he turned around and headed back.  As he passed the house again, he noticed a Holden pulled over by the side of the road.  When he saw who was standing in front of it, he was puzzled.  

                Detective Isabelle Pierce stood by the Holden, glaring at it as if it had wronged her.  The killer pulled over behind her and got out of his car.  She glanced over at him curiously, her eyes narrowing.  

                "G'day," she said guardedly.  

                "G'day, Detective Pierce," he said.  "Problem with your car?"  

                "Yes," she said, looking at him calmly.  

                "Do you need a ride somewhere?" he offered.  "What's wrong with it?"  

                "I think it overheated," she demurred.  "Just…give it a few minutes and I'll try it again." 

                The killer pondered.  Was she on to him?  He didn't think so.  Why was she pursuing his prey?  It seemed awfully convenient that she was here, right by the mansion on the water.  He turned his head and saw three figures on the deck.  A young boy, an older man, and his prey.  All three figures were silhouettes against the setting sun.  

                "You seemed quite interested in Hannibal Lecter in the meeting today," the killer said.  "Do you think he's in Sydney?"  

                Isabelle Pierce eyed the killer carefully.  "I'm not sure," she said.  "It's something we _ought _to check into."   

                The killer studied her and considered.  She didn't know who he was, he was sure of that.  She thought of him as his job.  All the better.  He could keep perfect track of how the investigation was going.  Bloody brilliant, when you came down to it.  

                "Well," he said, "I've got to be on my way.  If you're sure you don't need a ride or a hand….," 

                "I'll be fine," Detective Pierce told him.  "Thank you, though."  

                As the killer drove away, he watched her in his rearview until he finally turned a bend in the road and could not see her any further.  Yes, he thought, Detective Pierce would have to go.  It was safer that way.  Then he would seek out his prey.


	12. Flames

                _Author's note:  Here we are, another chapter. We'll check in on Detective Pierce soon enough, but this chapter came out long enough as it was.  For now, Clarice gets her visit, the GD reads the paper, Erin is insecure, and our jailbirds adjust to their new freedom._

Today was the day.  Clarice was happy.  It was about the only damn thing she had to be happy about.  But today was the day.  Paul was coming today.  

                The prison officials didn't know Paul was an FBI agent.  They thought he was an attorney.  All the better, Clarice thought.  They'd get to speak in confidence.  Right under the noses of the screws, too.  That pleased Clarice.  She was sure it would gall Beck to no end.  

                The guards escorted Clarice into a small room with a table.  Paul was sitting at the table.  His suit was a bit flashier and more expensive than what most FBI agents wore.  He grinned at her with white teeth.  The guards took off her cuffs and told her to sit.  Clarice sat and waited until the guards slammed the door, locking them in.  

                "Thank God you're here," Clarice said.  

                Paul nodded and looked at her calmly.  He tipped his head and studied her carefully.  Clarice felt something twinge in her stomach.  

                "Is something wrong?"  

                Paul shook his head.  "Just looking atcha," he said.  "Trying to compare.  I gotta know you are who you say you are."  

                Clarice's mouth opened and her face worked.  "What…you mean…don't you believe me?"  

                "Turn your head," Paul said.  "Lemme see your profile, will ya?"  

                Clarice turned her head and stared at Paul as if he was her last hope.  Which, to be honest, he was.  Paul closed his eyes for a moment and seemed like nothing so much as a computer processing a big load of data.  Then he smiled and opened them again.  

                "Okay," Paul said.  "I know it's kind of weird.  I was comparing."  

                Clarice reached out and put her hand on his.  The touch of another human being who wasn't putting handcuffs on her was something she valued a great deal these days.  

                "Comparing what?" she whispered.  

                "I got a good memory," he said. "You know, photographic memory.  I remember images and such pretty good."  He chuckled.  

                "You're eidetic?" Clarice asked.  

                Paul waved his hands and grinned.  "Oooooh, them fancy Behavioral Science toims," he quipped.  "I guess so.  I remember you at the restaurant.  You were wearing a blue suit with gold buttons.  And little white circles around 'em.  Like ivory, I guess.  You've lost some weight since you got here.  But it's you."  

                "Good," Clarice said.  "Now how about getting me out of here?"  

                "I'm working on that," he said.  "I need your fingerprints."  He extracted a small ink pad from his inside jacket pocket and a fingerprint card.   Clarice stopped and worked her throat.  

                "Wait," she said breathlessly.  "You mean you're not getting me out of here?"  

                Paul stopped and exhaled.  "Not today," he said.  He put a hand on her arm.  

                "Look, I know," he explained.  "I really hoped you didn't get your heart set on getting out of here today.  But c'mon, how many times have you walked into a state prison and walked out with a prisoner?"  

                Clarice exhaled.  She should have known this, she told herself.  But part of her had hoped and prayed that she would get out of here today.  She slumped with visible disappointment.  

                "When, then?" she asked.  

                "Well," Paul said, "I gotta see what I can find out here.  If your fingerprints pop up, no sweat, I'll take you out of here in a couple days.  Just need a judge to sign off on it, it was a screwup.  I guess this DeGould chickie is gonna be hurting once they realize what she tried to pull."  

                Clarice leaned forward and grabbed his arm.  Outside, the guards watching leaned forward, as if Clarice meant to attack him.  

                "Wait," she said.  "What if they _don't?"  _

Paul put his hands up.  "You think she swapped out your prints wit' this Brittany chickadee?"  

                Clarice nodded, her face open with fear.  

                "Clarice," Paul said, and smiled.  "Look.  I know it sucks big time here.  I know you're you.  And I'm workin' on it.  I _promise.  _But…but you gotta give me some time to do my work here. I'll get you out of here.  I just can't waltz out of here with you.  We gotta do this the right way.  I did a little bit of checking.  As far as the _system _thinks, Clarice Starling got pulled out of here three days ago, just like Mapp.  We gotta set the system straight, and to _do _that I gotta get my ducks in a row here."  

                "Paul, _please," _Clarice said nervously.  "You don't understand.  Rebecca DeGould did this to me.  She's _not _just doing this as a prank.  If she did this, she means to get me off the map once and for all."  Her own words reminded her of Paul's.  "And wait a minute…what do you mean, 'just like Mapp?'"  

                Paul sighed.  "I checked it out, Clarice, and look…I don't want you to get all upset, but…," 

                Clarice's eyes burned at the New York agent.  "But what, Paul?" she demanded. 

                "I really…my job is getting you out of here." 

                "_But what, Paul?" _Clarice stressed.  

                Paul DaSilva sighed.  He rubbed his eyes and made a brave face.  

                "I checked with the boys down in Miami," he said.  "According to the bad boys over at Broward CI, Anna Milsford – Agent Mapp's cover identity-- got into a fight with an inmate by the name of Kiera Washington the day before she was extracted.  An FBI agent from Washington flew down to get her.  The afternoon of the same day that you…her…whoever…was extracted.  Agent who pulled her out was Rebecca DeGould."  He sighed.  "They said when they pulled her out, that some other inmate in solitary was banging and kicking up a ruckus screaming that she was Ardelia Mapp."  

                Clarice Starling felt a wave of horror race through her stomach.  Tears rose to her eyes.  Rebecca DeGould had gotten her but good.  That, Clarice could deal with.   But she knew that Ardelia Mapp was suffering just as she was, and that was a thousand times worse.  DeGould didn't know Ardelia.  The only reason why she would target 'Delia in the first place was because of Clarice.  

                Her best friend was suffering a thousand miles away from her, and it was because of her.  She hung her head and began to sob brokenly.  

                Paul's arm was friendly on her shoulder.  

                "Hey, c'mon," he said.  "Buck up.  It'll all be OK."  

                Clarice's head snapped up.  She stared at Paul with agony in her eyes.  

                "OK?" she asked.  "OK?  I'm in prison and so is my best friend!  Some goddam vengeful bitch came after me and switched my identity with some kid doing twenty-five to life!  Now she's out living it up as me, and I'm stuck here.  It is _not _OK!"  

                Paul held up his hands.  "Clarice, kiddo, you gotta work with me here," he said.  "I believe you.  I do.  But I'm just one guy, you know?  I gotta do a couple things.  If nothing else pans out, I can take you into federal custody.  I just gotta do some groundwork.  Okay?  Trust me."  

                Clarice bit her lip as hard as she could to make herself stop crying.  He was right, the federal-agent part of herself told her.  DeGould hadn't just sprung this on her; she'd done her homework.  She had to let Paul do his.  And she couldn't fall into despair herself.  She had to fight.  

                "Paul, don't let them get me," she begged.  "I…I can't stand this, I really can't."  

                "I won't," he said.  "You just gotta give me some time, that's all."  

                She wiped her tears away and forced herself to be strong.  She had to be.  

                "Okay," she said.  

                "We'll win, Clarice.  I promise you that.  One way or another, we'll win."  

                Clarice nodded and sniffled.  

                "Did you find out anything about Brittany Tollman?" she asked.  

                "Oh, yeah," he said.  

                "Like what?" 

                He shrugged.  "Her boyfriend and her went on some crime spree," he said.  "She said he kidnapped her.  Beat up on her.  Judge didn't buy it.  They shot some guy in a convenience store.  She testified against him and they gave her twenty-five to life.  What the hell do you care about her for, anyway?  She screwed you over."  

                "Can you get ahold of her?  Quietly?"  Clarice asked.  

                He shrugged.  "Well, I can try," he hedged.  "Don't you think your pal DeGould there is watching her?  And anyways, _she's _not gonna help you.  She's out.  That's all she'll want."  

                Clarice sighed.  "Maybe," she said.  "Maybe if we get ahold of her, we can do something."  

                "Clarice, c'mon," Paul said.  "I'll look into it for you, sure.  But if we catch her she's back here for twenty years.  She doesn't have any incentive to cooperate.  Besides, she's a _criminal.  _You think you can trust her?"  

                Clarice sighed.  "She looked kind of guilty, when they took her out," she said.  "Maybe she's got a conscience.  And maybe if she helps us, we can help her."     

                 Paul looked dubious, but didn't say anything.  

                "Okay," he said.  "I'm gonna have me a little chat with the lieutenant, see if I can get you out of lockdown at the least.  I'll be back, Clarice.  Keep your chin up.  This isn't gonna be forever.  I promise."  

                He rose then, and the guards entered to take her back to her cell.  Clarice went to her cell quietly.  

                _I will not let them beat me, _Clarice vowed.  _I will win yet._

The door of her cell slammed shut as if mocking that thought.  

…

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat at his desk, calmly reading the _Tattler.  _It was one of his favorite papers, even though it was so dreadful.  Reading the paper brought back memories.  Today's copy of the _Tattler _had an article that interested him.  _PRISON SEX AND VIOLENCE SCANDAL, _the headline screamed.  _FEDERAL PROBE REVEALS HORROR AND VIOLENCE BEHIND BARS.  _

Dr. Lecter turned to the page the article was on and began to scan it.  His attention was attracted by the picture.  Two women in suits, walking calmly down the stairs of the Capitol building.  The caption read _Agent Clarice Starling, returned from a deep-cover federal probe, testifies privately to Senator Allstyne about the sexual abuses taking place in the nation's prisons.    _

The woman on the right seemed vaguely familiar to Dr. Lecter.  He closed his eyes and consulted his memory palace.  One moment…ah, there it was.  Agent Rebecca DeGould.  Clarice's antagonist from the unpleasantries a few years ago, when Clarice had captured Erin.  But the woman on the left he had never seen before.  She _looked _like Clarice, he would freely admit that.  Anyone who did not know Clarice personally might be fooled.  Her hair was in the same style, and the curves of her face were close enough.  But Dr. Lecter had lived with Clarice Starling's face in his mind for years.  That was _not _Clarice.  

                Clarice Starling had turned him down, true, but then once she had captured Erin she had set her free.  Set _both _of them free.  She'd promised to leave them to their peace so long as Dr. Lecter killed no one else.  What was this, then?  Had Clarice been replaced in the Bureau, the _Tattler _would have stated the other agent's name.  That wasn't Clarice, but she was identified as such in the picture.  

                How odd.  Would Clarice need his help, perhaps?  

                His reverie was interrupted by the sound of small running feet.  Michael came running down the hall and appeared in the doorway of his den.  He was naked and wet, having just escaped from his bath.  Small wet footprints marked his progress from the bathroom.  He glanced down the hall and entered the den, standing proudly in front of his father. 

                "G'day, Daddy," he said and beamed with accomplishment.  

                Dr. Lecter smiled at his son with some amusement.  The boy's wet hair was slicked back and gleamed like a pelt.  His eyes were the same maroon shade as his father's.  

                "_Good day,_ Michael.  The proper term is 'Good day'."  

                Michael did not appear to understand.  Dr. Lecter feared he would never learn proper grammar.   _All those insipid children's programs, _Dr. Lecter thought.  

                "Michael, did you finish your bath?  It seems to me you escaped midway through."  

                The little boy giggled guiltily and attempted to crawl behind his father's desk.  Dr. Lecter grasped his son and waited.  A moment later, Erin came in from the hallway, her own hair wet and a towel in her grasp.  

                "Oh, _there _he is," she said.   "He got away from me when I was toweling him off."  

                "No!  No towel!  No bedtime!" Michael said, and seized his father's tie.  

                "Yes, dry," Dr. Lecter told his son.  "I'm afraid bedtime is here.  Now be a good boy and go along with your mother."  When Erin had the slippery child in the towel, Dr. Lecter set about freeing his tie from his son's grasp.  

                "Come on," Erin said.  "Time for PJ's and bedtime."  

                "Nooooo!" Michael protested, and his face squinched into a look of displeasure.  He held out his arms piteously towards Dr. Lecter as if hoping for a paternal pardon.

                "Don't look at me," Dr. Lecter said.  "It _is _bedtime, Michael."  He turned his attention to his wife.  "Your son seems to be quite the escape artist," he said.  

                Erin raised an eyebrow at him.  "_My _son?"  

                "Yes," Dr. Lecter assured her, "when he's naked and getting footprints on the floor, he's your son."  

                She chuckled.  As she shifted the struggling toddler, her eyes dropped to his paper.  When they came back up, they were not amused.  

                "Erin," Dr. Lecter said, knowing what she was thinking.  

                Her tone was brisk and businesslike.  "I'll just get him in his pajamas and then we'll talk about this later, Hannibal."  

                Dr. Lecter could hear his son's protests even through the bedtime rituals of pajamas, the bedtime story, and the final bidding goodnight to every object in the room.  For a moment he sighed.  Michael could be _such _a capricious little tyrant at times.  Three-year-olds had a great deal in common with the late Dr. Chilton, he decided.  Yet finally he was pacified.  He heard footsteps approaching his den and sighed.  

                Erin appeared in the doorway and crossed her arms at him.  Her face was a picture of hard displeasure.  She eyed him in a manner that reminded him of the judge who had found him insane all those years ago.  Dr. Lecter put his hands behind his head and waited for his sentence to be passed.  

                "So," she said briskly.  "Back to looking _her _up in the _Tattler."  _

"Erin," Dr. Lecter said tolerantly, "I assure you, it's not what you think."  

                "Oh, _really?" _she said.  "You know, I had old boyfriends in college.  I don't keep a collage of them in my desk drawer."  She waited a moment before delivering a rebuke that needled Dr. Lecter rather more than he ever thought it would.  "It's _tacky, _Hannibal."  

                "Would you have a look at the article, please?" Dr. Lecter asked.  He tilted the paper so that she could read it.  She made no move to.  

                "Why? It's gonna be one of three things.  She killed a criminal, she caught a criminal, or it's a rerun article about her and us.  'FBI's KILLING MACHINE STILL TRACKING DOWN FIENDISH CANNIBAL COUPLE.'"  Her tone was mocking.  "And I don't even practice cannibalism."    

                "Not this one," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  But Erin was having none of it.  

                "I don't know why you still look up these articles about her," she said.  "Maybe I should remind you.  _Clarice _didn't go with you.  _I _did.  Clarice told you no.  'Not in a thousand years', as a matter of fact.  It wasn't Clarice who gave up her career and her name and everything she'd ever worked for so that she could be with you.  That was _me."  _

"Erin, please," Dr. Lecter tried to interject.  Erin continued, ticking off her points on her fingers.  

                "I gave up my name for you.  I am listed on the FBI's web site because of you.  I have gone with you from country to country, switching names and identities and building our entire life from scratch so that I could be with you.  I was arrested, shipped across the Atlantic Ocean, and held prisoner at Quantico because I chose to be with you.  I bore you a son.  Clarice did _none _of that for you.  Clarice let you go, I know you're going to say that."  

                "That is no small thing," Dr. Lecter pointed out.  "And she let _us _go."

                "Neither was saving her life.  And you obsess over her and you cut out her picture and you hope she'll be in the next issue."  Tears glittered in her eyes.   "Every day, I wonder _Is it enough now?  Has he been with me long enough that he's not going to obsess over her anymore?  Now have I given him enough?  _And every time I see you flipping through…that _trash tabloid_…I have to wonder some more.  I have to ask myself if today's going to be the day you've decided you want her instead of me."  

                "Erin, you are my wife.  I have no plans to rekindle with Clarice.  It's you I want to be with."  

                "Is it?"  

                "Of course," Dr. Lecter assured her.  

                "Then I want something," she said.  

                Dr. Lecter supposed he knew what it was, but he decided to try anyway.  "What is it you want, my dear?"  

                "No more Clarice," she said.  "No more getting all moony over her in the _Tattler.  _It's been years since you last saw her.  There is a Sydney police detective who is pursuing us around.  _Us, _Hannibal.  You and your wife and your son.  So I want you to make a choice.  Either you get over Clarice…_now_…or you get on a plane and go back to the United States.  They'll probably throw you in an asylum for the rest of your life, or maybe prison.  You'd probably never see Michael or me again.  But you'd have your oh-so-precious Clarice, if she'll come and visit you, that is.  If you stay here with Michael and me, then fine, that's what I want, but I don't want to see you mooning over the _Tattler _again.  Ever.  I'm tired of living in her shadow.  No more."  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  "Erin, you're really overly insecure about this," he said.    

                "Make your choice, Hannibal," Erin repeated firmly.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter sighed and rolled back in his chair.  He closed the _Tattler _and then reached down for a lower desk drawer.  From it, he extracted a manila folder.  In it were several clipped-out articles and pictures.  Below that, copies of the letters he had sent to Clarice before.  

                Somberly, as if burying an old friend, Dr. Lecter put the copy of the _Tattler _in the manila folder.  Then he stood and walked from the room, beckoning for his wife to follow him.  The living room on the first floor of the house possessed a massive fireplace.  As the house was on the water, it could get cold at night even during the warm months.  A carefully built fire licked along the split wood.  

                Dr. Lecter stood for a moment and closed his eyes.  He should have realized this time was coming long ago.  Before Erin's capture, she had usually been tense about Clarice; since then, it had only gotten worse.  Perhaps someday Erin would accept that Clarice was not a threat to her in his eyes.  That it was possible to deeply care for someone while acknowledging that it was not meant to be.  But in the meantime, he would do this thing for his wife.  

                His arm came forward, and the manila folder sailed through the air.  For just a moment, a collection years in the making grazed his fingers.  Dr. Lecter stood calm and determined, not reaching to save it.  Then the folder landed in the flames.  

                Tongues of fire began to lick greedily at the cheap newsprint as soon as the folder landed.  Images of Clarice Starling he had collected over a decade began to blacken and curl. A copy of the picture of Clarice atop the lion's body leaped into the air as if trying to escape, but it, too, was devoured by the flames.  

                _The honey in the lion, _Dr. Lecter thought.  _And yet the flames consume it all. _

Then, in the course of a few seconds later, they were gone.  Black flecks and orange sparks were all that remained.  The manila folder lasted perhaps thirty seconds more.  He turned back to his wife, watching him mutely.

                "There you are, Erin," he said.  "Is that sufficient proof of my devotion?"  

                Erin let out a shuddering sigh and nodded.  

                "I'm sorry," she said brokenly.  "I just…you _always _get so _moony _over her, you stare at her pictures and get this look on your face, and _I _love you, and she doesn't, and I--," 

                "It's all right, Erin," Dr. Lecter said, and embraced his wife.  He supposed he could not exactly blame her; she _had _given up much more for him than Clarice ever had.  But he could not help but ponder  over the idea, even as he held his wife against him.  They had their own problems, to be sure.  He would take care of the nosy detective one way or the other.  But still. 

                Why was Clarice misidentified in the paper?  Was she in trouble?  Something had to be awry; the _Tattler _had never misidentified Clarice before.  What if she was?  Could Erin be convinced to set aside her insecurities?  Would he be forced to choose between them? 

…

                This whole thing was _weird, _Brittany Tollman thought.  

                Her leave form as Clarice Starling had been approved.  Miss DeGould was running Behavioral Sciences, and so she didn't have to be anywhere.  She and Kiera were at home, in the duplex.  They'd been having a regular old good time.  

                She was sitting on Clarice's recliner.  Kiera was sprawled out on the couch.  She found that she got along with Kiera very well.  Over the first day, they had sort of circled each other uncomfortably.  Like cellies, when you came down to it.  Except now they had a much larger space to share than either of them had ever thought.  

                They were quite similar, Brittany had found.  Both had been sentenced to unduly long prison sentences.  Kiera had gone down for murder too.  She'd said her boyfriend did it, but it hadn't done her any good.  Brittany believed her.  That was exactly what had happened to her.  She suspected that Kiera's boyfriend had hit her too, even though the black woman hadn't said so.   

                The judges who had sentenced Brittany Tollman and Kiera Washington to lengthy prison terms had both commented that they were dangerous, heartless creatures.  How surprised those esteemed men in black robes would have been to see them as they saw the duplex belonging to the two women they had switched with!  When DeGould had dropped off Brittany at the duplex, Kiera had been waiting there.  She'd ordered a pizza and gone out and gotten some beer to go with it, so that Brittany would have something to eat when she got in.  There was plenty of money in the house for pizza.  Kiera had been bubbling with excitement over the duplex and its wonders.  

                To a free-world observer, there was something both pathetic and wonderful about the excitement of the girls.  They squealed over Clarice's Mustang and Ardelia's red Mitsubishi in the driveway.  Cars!  They had cars!  In the duplex, they squealed equally excitedly over the showers.  

                "Look!" Kiera had said.  "There's a _curtain_!  You don't have to shower with a whole bunch of other people watching!"  

                "And you don't have to wear _socks _in the shower!" Brittany giggled.  "It's _clean!"  _

                The first night, they'd ventured out in the Mustang and gone out to DC.  Miss DeGould had left them some money for minor expenses.  Soon they'd have to get into the respective bank accounts of Clarice and Ardelia.  But for now they had some cash and they wanted some fun.  At the time, they'd been too excited by their newfound freedoms to think it odd that they were going through another woman's closet for something to wear.  They'd picked something short and tight, gone out to a club in the city, chatted up some guys, and considered themselves the queens of all creation.  

                The day after that, they'd both been forcibly reminded of the aftereffects of late-night partying.   They'd spent the day taking it easy.  In the afternoon, they'd bought some new clothes on Ardelia's credit card.  They'd also bought cell phones from a place in the mall.  They'd called out for pizza again at night, when the thought of food became less nauseating than it had in the morning.  Today, they'd gone out to Six Flags.  Two convicted felons giggling and squealing like schoolgirls as they rode the rides, stuffed themselves with greasy food, and played games on the midway.  One would have thought they were lifelong friends from how they acted around each other.  Rebecca DeGould had chosen her players well.  

                Now, though, they were tired.  All that walking around had exhausted them.   After showering and changing into clean clothes, they were parked in Clarice's living room.  The novelty of not having fungus and mold in the shower had worn off after three days of freedom.  Both girls were tired, but they were clean, happy, and free.  They sat in the living room, large glasses of soda pop nearby.  Flickering images from the TV painted their faces and made them look like ghosts.  

                "Hey, Britt?" Kiera asked from where she reclined on the couch.   Rebecca DeGould had forbidden them to use their own names in public.  But both girls were convicts, and petty disobediences had been their only ability to assert themselves for so long the habit was immured.  They'd do as Miss DeGould said when she was around, but when it was just them, they'd do as they pleased.  

                "Yeah?"   

                "You ever think about the people we switched with?"  

                Brittany Tollman considered.  "Sometimes," she said.  "I know Miss DeGould has it in for 'em.  Or just Clarice, I think."  

                "She must have a pretty big hate on for 'em, if she's gonna stick 'em in the hole," Kiera observed.  

                Brittany shrugged.  "I feel bad for 'em," she said.  "But Miss DeGould told me that Starling was a rogue agent.  That she did horrible things.  And they protected her because she was an FBI agent.  You know how it is.  Cops protect their own."  

                Kiera rolled over.  "Like what did she do?" she asked curiously.  

                Brittany's lips quirked.  "She said Starling worked her over with a crowbar," she said.  "You know that scar she's got on her head?  Starling did that.  And she said Agent Mapp was a lawyer and protected her.  And helped her out, too.  She also said Starling likes to beat up on prisoners once she's arrested them.  She kilt some woman in DC a couple years ago.  DeGould showed me in the paper.  The woman wasn't doing anything wrong, just holding her baby.  Starling shot her right in the head."  She shivered.  

                "You think she's telling the truth, though?"  

                Brittany shrugged again.  "She showed me pictures of _that."  _

"Yeah, that's about what she told me," Kiera said softly.  

                "I mean, don't get me wrong, I feel bad for 'em, and it seems like they're getting screwed," Brittany said softly.  "But you know, they're not the first people who got screwed.  I mean, look at me.  Danny _kidnapped _me.  I didn't want to go with him.  He kidnapped me out of my apartment and did most of the robberies all by himself.  I thought he was gonna _kill _me.  Finally, he says do some of the robberies with me or I'll kill you.  So…I did.  Then he starts shooting the clerks.  They finally caught us just over the New York border from Pennsylvania.  Four cops close on this little gas station about two miles into New York.  They shot Danny.  I had a gun, I _could've _taken one of em out.  But I didn't.  I just put my gun down and my hands on my head and said, hey, don't shoot, I surrender."  

                Kiera watched her quietly and nodded.  

                "They cuff us both and drag us off.  I tell the cops my story, I said listen, he beat me up something fierce.  In Maryland.  I said, look, I didn't kill anybody, I'm a victim here too, you know.  I'll testify.  And I did.  My big reward for cooperating and helping put away Danny?  Twenty-five years to life.  That's the best they would do." She chuckled and snorted bitterly.  "I guess I put them bruises on myself and dislocated my own shoulder."  

                Kiera nodded.  "That's sort of like how it was for me," she said.  "Malik was my boyfriend.  He wanted to break into this ol' lady's house.  He thought she had money.  I wasn't even _there.  _I was outside in the car.  I had no idea she was gonna wake up.  I had no idea he was gonna kill her neither.   I offered to testify.  They got big-hearted and said they'd give me the opportunity to parole _some _day."  

                Brittany shrugged in a 'what can you do' gesture.  

                "See," she said.  "I feel bad for 'em, but it's not like they're the only ones in the world to get screwed over by the system.  And there's nothing _we _can do.  This is a second chance from goddam heaven as far as I'm concerned."   

                A knock at the door attracted both women's attention.  Brittany padded to the door in her new sandals and glanced outside.  Rebecca DeGould stood at the doorstep.  Compliantly, Brittany opened the door and let her in.  

                "Hello, Miss DeGould," she said quietly.  

                Rebecca DeGould grinned at her.  "Hello, Brittany," she said stridently.  "Kiera's here, isn't she?"  

                "Yes, ma'am," Brittany said.  "Right this way."    

                "Good."  

                Brittany led her benefactor into the living room.  When Kiera saw her, she stood up suddenly at attention.  Brittany knew the deal; it was hard to break prison habits.  

                "Ladies," Rebecca DeGould said.  "We have a bit of an issue.  It seems Clarice Starling got a visit from a lawyer today."  

                Brittany found herself trembling.  She didn't want to go back to prison.  This was her second chance.  

                "Um…um…I didn't do it," she whispered.  

                DeGould sighed and gave her a look.  "Of _course _you didn't, Brittany, you're not dumb enough to sacrifice yourself for Clarice Starling.  Now listen up, you two.  You are _not _to take phone calls here."  She noticed the two cell-phone boxes on the table and grinned.  "You got cell phones.  Good, that's a smart decision.  I want those numbers.  Do _not _take phone calls, do _not _answer the door unless it's me or Sneed.  Either stay back here or go out for the day."  She chuckled coldly.  

                "This isn't the end of the world, girls.  Don't get all nervous.  Clarice can get a lawyer; it won't help her.  Her fingerprints say she's you and so does the prison's DNA sample. That's all we need.  Things are going along _just fine.  _You just have to be careful, that's all."  

                Both girls nodded.  "Yes, Miss DeGould," they both chorused like schoolgirls.  

                "Also, Brittany, Lieutenant Beck says hi," DeGould continued.  She noticed the younger woman flinching when she spoke that name.  "He gave me a list of inmates that we can rely on to play along in order to give little Clarice a record for fighting.  I want you to check it out for me and tell me what you think." 

                She handed over a list.  Brittany scanned it.  

                "Um, she's up for a transfer to Albion soon," Brittany stuttered.  "She'd probably play along…this one's a snitch, I'd be worried about her…this one ought to be OK, she wants visits with her kids and she'll do whatever she has to do to get it."  

                DeGould took it back and checked off the name Brittany had expressed doubt on.  

                "How about Ardelia?" Kiera asked.  

                "Tucked away in solitary, just as she was supposed to be," DeGould said.  She chuckled mercilessly.  "You're quite fortunate, Kiera.  It's a hundred and five degrees down there today.  And you know there's no fans in solitary."  

                Kiera shivered a bit, knowing perfectly well that Ardelia Mapp was locked up in a tiny concrete oven.  DeGould smiled coldly.  Better that her girls were afraid; they'd listen to her better.  

                "Girls, this is a minor thing, and we were planning to let Starling and Mapp out of solitary anyway, so they can get into fights.  _Nothing _has changed.  I just need you to be careful."  Her eyes scanned her two jailbirds calmly.  Perhaps the softer side would keep them on their toes.  

                "I think you ought to know just how dangerous Clarice Starling is," DeGould said.  "A few years ago, she arrested some people.  They got off on the charges, because Clarice didn't have a warrant.  When they walked, Clarice did…_this _to them."   

                From her purse, DeGould extracted a few case files.  These were from Hannibal Lecter's crime scenes.  She handed the pictures of mutilated bodies over to Brittany, who eyed them nervously and stared at them. She handed them to Kiera with trembling hands.  

                "Girls, just keep your heads about you and everything will be just fine," she said.  "Starling and Mapp are bottled up tight, and they're not getting out.  If you do what I tell you, they'll stay that way…_forever."  _


	13. Messages Sent, Message Received

                _Author's note:  This chapter took a while longer than I thought to come together.  But here we are, a four-scene chapter.  (This fic is beginning to remind me of the movie 'Magnolia'.  But there will be no rain of frogs.)    _

                Detective Isabelle Pierce sighed and examined her file.  The latest body of the Cannibal Killer's victim had been found out on the docks.  She'd gotten the report from the pathologist, but she wanted to see for herself.  That meant a trip no detective particularly enjoyed making – a trip to the morgue.  

                She drove out into the dying summer day and headed over to the morgue.  It was a dull, boring little building.  Inside was dank institutional linoleum and fluorescent lights that hurt her eyes.  The dead were stored in bright steel lockers against the far wall.  

                On the slab was a body stored in a black vinyl bag.  The pathologist glanced over at her as she entered.  

                "Ah, Detective Pierce," he said.  Isabelle started, surprised that he knew who she was.  

                "Hello," she said.  

                "Dr. McGregory," he introduced himself.  "Here to look at the Lecter victim?"  

                She stopped for a moment.  Did he know?  Was she not the only one who suspected Dr. Litton?  She cleared her throat and smiled nervously.  

                "The Cannibal Killer victim, yes," she said.  

                "He's right on the table.  I'll open it up and let you have a look at him," the pathologist said.  "I'll warn you now, it's rather nasty."  

                Isabelle nodded.  

                "Just open it," she said.  

                The body did not look terribly mutilated at first.  A man in his mid-thirties.  Dark hair, reasonably well nourished.  The face was free of marks or mutilations.  On his abdomen was a gash just long enough to admit a hand.  The pathologist pointed at that.  

                "Very odd," he said.  "Slightly different from the other cases.  Three organs were taken in this go-round.  That's unusual."  

                Isabelle bent her neck over the gash and looked at it.  She did not flinch.  There were fragments of what seemed like a bloody handprint next to it.  

                _The UNSUB approached the corpse from the right side and carved that gash into him, _she thought.  _Then he put his left hand on the side, right there, to brace himself.  It's not only unusual that he took more than one organ from the same victim.  You're feeling cocky now, aren't you?  _

_                All the prior victims were cut for meat, but the access cut was much, much wider.  Aren't you the showoff now?  Showing that you can reach through that little slit and grab your organs without looking at them. _

_                Or maybe your little surgeon wife did it for you.  She's got little hands and she reaches into bodies every day. _

"Do we have a name for this bloke?" she asked.  

                The pathologist shook his head dismissively.  "They're running his fingerprints now."    

                "What does his tox screen look like?"  

Dr. McGregory took out a piece of paper and scanned it.  "Not much.  Some alcohol, .03 percent BAC.  A drink or two, maybe."  

"Is the wound here what killed him?"  

                The pathologist shook his head.  "I'll have a full report for you and the rest of the task force shortly, Detective Pierce.  I was just about to begin the autopsy."  

                "Oh," she said.  "I won't get in your way, then."  As she walked back to the car, she tried to ponder what she had.  

                The killer was cocky.  Was that possibly because Dr. Lecter had gotten her off his case?  That made perfect sense.  Then again, perhaps it could be something else.  She thought back to her classes at Quantico.  _Criminal profiling is kind of like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together in the dark, _Clarice Starling had said.  _You never know what pieces you missed and what pieces you forced until you catch the guy and the lights come on.  _

Perhaps her former teacher would be willing to help on this one.  The FBI did such things, she knew.  They consulted to other countries when it was necessary.  Isabelle didn't even want a full-blown FBI task force down here.  Agent Starling for a few days, to bounce ideas off of and suggest new ones, would be fine.  

                _And ask about Dr. Litton, don't forget that, _her mind whispered.   

Isabelle Pierce returned to the station and sat down at her desk.  The horror of the previous victim wasn't lost on her.  She _still _thought the Littons were more than they seemed to be.  There had to be something she could do.  

                Her superiors had ordered her to leave the Littons alone.  The problem here, Isabelle thought, was that if Dr. Hamilton Litton _was _Dr. Lecter, and if he was responsible for the killings she had just seen, then she would gladly take whatever professional discipline they chose to mete out.  If she was wrong, so be it; if she were right, lives would be saved.  

                What would they do to his wife and the little tyke?  That wasn't her department.  But if Elaine Litton was Erin Lander, then the American courts would handle her.  She didn't think they'd do anything too horrible to the surgeon.  Dr. Lecter, however, would be another matter.  He was a serial killer.  

                Well, she could start by bolstering her case a bit. Glancing back and forth, she felt slightly guilty.  No one was paying attention to her.  _Well of course they're not, _she chided herself.  _You're **supposed **to be here.  And you're supposed to be pursuing the Cannibal Killer. _

 She opened up her Outlook and began to compose a new email.  

                _That's exactly what I'm doing, _she thought.  Her fingers clicked efficiently over the keyboard.  

                _From: isabelle.pierce@police.nsw.gov.au_

_                To: cstarling@fbi.gov_

_                Subject: Information Request _

_                Good morning, Agent Starling, _

_                My name is Detective Isabelle Pierce.  I'm with the Sydney police department in Sydney, Australia. We've actually met.  I took some classes at the National Academy at Quantico about a year ago; you taught a few of the classes.  I don't know if you recall.  _

                _What I'm writing you for is to ask if there is further information you might be able to give out about Dr. Hannibal Lecter and his wife Erin Lander.  I tried to get some information off of VICAP, but it's a bit sketchy.  If you could lend a hand, it would greatly help our investigation.  We've got an active UNSUB and I think he's patterning himself after Dr. Lecter.  Thank you for any help you could give us in advance. _

_                    Detective Isabelle Pierce_

Detective Pierce spent a moment or two staring at the email.  Should she risk it?  How could she bloody well _not_?  Dr. Lecter should not be able to get away because his wife had done gallbladder surgery on the mayor of Sydney.  Perhaps Agent Starling could help.  She'd seemed very nice at Quantico.

                She clicked _Send _and sent the message halfway around the world in a heartbeat.    

                …

                Clarice Starling sat in her cell and pondered.  In her cell, she had nothing to do but think.  It hadn't been easy; part of her wanted only to panic and shriek.  But she forced herself to put that aside and think.   

                Paul DaSilva was on the level.  She knew that.  He'd promised to help her, and she sensed the timber of truth in his words.  He wasn't going to screw her over.  The problem, for Clarice, was that he was trying to do it through the system.  

                Paul might be a good FBI agent; he might well be honest and true.  That, Clarice thought, was the _problem.  _Rebecca DeGould played dirty; Paul played clean.  That put him at a disadvantage.  Clarice found herself terrified that DeGould had already fixed the fingerprints.  It was a damn database, that was all, and if you had the right password that was all you would need.  Visions of being kept here for twenty years were dancing in her head.  She could see herself in her late fifties, pleading with the parole board for her freedom.  _Miss Tollman, do you still insist on this story that you're really Clarice Starling, an FBI agent?  I'm afraid your parole application is denied.  _

If she played fair, she would lose.  Paul would try, she knew.  But if she played fair, she'd be lost in the prison system.  DeGould would win.  

                She had to get out of here.  That much was pure and simple.  She needed out and she needed it now.  For that, Paul would not help.  She needed an expert.  

                _I don't like cheating, _she thought, _but I don't see any other way.  _

Beck was off today, again. Thank God for small favors.  Sundays and Mondays were his days off.  She'd have to remember that.  The same guard went by for feeding and Clarice asked for another phone call.  Same deal, same trade.  After a quick kiss-and-grope session she had her phone call again.  It occurred to her that the first time she'd been so nervous about this.  Now it was a matter of course; the simple payment she had to make to get the damn phone.  

                Again Clarice stared at the phone.  Again she dialed.  This was a number she had stored long in her memory.  She'd toyed with it at times, but never actually worked up the courage to call it.  

                "_International Herald-Tribune, _may I help you?"  

                Clarice sighed.  Given everything that had happened, she never thought she would ever say these words.  Years ago she had thought of doing it.  She never had, though.  Then…well, then things had taken turns she did not expect.  And the latest twists and turns had put her in this position.  

                "Hi," she said.  "I need to place an ad in your agony column.  This is gonna be on a credit card."  

                "One moment, I'll connect you," the voice said.  Clarice heard hold music.  A few minutes later, another voice came on the line.  

                "Classified Ads, would you like to place an ad today?"  

                _Gee, dumbass, why else would I be calling? _Clarice thought sourly.  

                "Yes," Clarice said.  "In the agony column."  

                "OK, just one moment…let me get into the right screen.  How will your ad be worded, ma'am?"  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  She _had _to at least try.  Perhaps they would help.  

                "It starts like this," Clarice said.  "A. A. Aaron…," 

                …

                Rebecca DeGould headed through the corridors of Behavioral Science, feeling quite pleased with herself.  She'd just gotten off the phone with Lieutenant Beck.  Clarice was still locked up tight.  It was time to get her out of solitary and into general population.  A few weeks and a few fights later, Clarice would be shipped to Chowchilla.  Signed, sealed, and delivered.  

                As far as Behavioral Sciences went, it was hers.  Brittany had practiced Clarice's signature enough that the promotion form she'd signed went unnoticed.  She was now Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences, and Acting Section Chief while Clarice was 'on leave'.  The amusing thing, she thought, was that it was only temporary.  Rebecca DeGould had no interest in the FBI.  She made far more money working for her father.  She'd seized control of Behavioral Science so she'd be in a position to better keep track of things while she waited for Clarice to be sent to Chowchilla.  Once Clarice was entombed in her little box, she was going to speak with the people she knew out in California to ensure that Clarice spent five years in solitary.  After that, her brains would be mush and it wouldn't hurt DeGould a bit to let her out.  

                Her revenge against Gregory Lynch was complete.  Her revenge against Clarice Starling was well underway.  Beck would come up with a few inmates who were willing to have the snot beaten out of them in order to get parole, or a better institution.  Five or six would be all she needed.  A quick phone call to California would grease the skids for Clarice's transfer.  

                That _did _leave only one person remaining.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  Part of her was tempted to stick with the FBI just to see if she could bag the good doctor.  She'd found him once – something Starling hadn't done, she noted with some satisfaction.  She could do it again.  

                Then again, she _was _a realist where Clarice Starling was not concerned, and she knew the rank and file of Behavioral Sciences did not like her.  Most of them liked Starling.  She'd have to cleanse the department of Starling supporters if she stayed, and that would take a while.  All the same, there would be some satisfaction in leaving.  They would think Starling was dead.   Meanwhile, she had enough connections in Justice that she'd continue to get their reports on Lecter just as quickly as if she remained the Behavioral Sciences chief.  

                Still, DeGould thought, she could not lie back on her laurels.  She was pretty sure that her jailbirds would get by just fine in playing Starling and Mapp.  Once that was done, they needed to be settled where she could keep an eye on them.  But they had every incentive on earth to play along.  After all, if either of them got pangs of conscience, it was back to prison for them for a long, long time.  

But being the Behavioral Sciences chief had its advantages.  One of them was that she was able to monitor the email of her underlings.  She'd gotten Starling's password reset, too.  It wasn't hard to set up her Outlook to get copies of her underlings' mail and pick up Starling's email.  She sat down at her desk.  She'd had Starling's stuff boxed up already.  She'd told them it was to move it into Conway's office.  Once she'd managed to finish the job on Starling, she was torn.  Should she send Clarice something to remind her of her old life, or simply throw it in the trash?  

                The trash sounded better, she thought.  She was throwing Starling in the trash.  It made sense to throw her stuff in the trash, too.  

                Rebecca DeGould sat down at her computer and opened her email.  She reviewed the emails her underlings had sent and received.  A few of them were asking amongst each other when Starling was going to be back from leave.  One of them in particular made a nasty comment about her.  DeGould wrote down that name for further retaliation.  She'd be nice; she'd simply kick them out of the department.  

                Starling's email had the usual corporate dreck.  Then there was something else of interest.  

                _From: isabelle.pierce@police.nsw.gov.au_

_                To: cstarling@fbi.gov_

_                Subject: Information Request_

Rebecca DeGould read the letter slowly.  A cold smile came over her face.  A killer patterning himself after Dr. Lecter?  Then why was the Aussie detective asking for information about Dr. Lecter's wife, too?  Riiiiiight.  The good doctor had set up shop in Australia, that was it.  Pierce was probably trying to hide it from Starling so she'd have all the glory for his capture to herself.  That made perfect sense to Rebecca; she'd done the same thing.  

                "Son of a bitch," Rebecca DeGould mused.  "This is working out even better than I thought."  __

                …

                Peace had come to the Litton household.  Night had fallen.  Michael was finally asleep.  Husband and wife sat in the parlor.  Dr. Lecter read a copy of the _International Herald-Tribune.  _Erin was examining a few of her upcoming patient charts.  

                Since Dr. Lecter had burned his collection, an uneasy peace had held sway in the home.  She seemed comforted by the gesture, but seemed to feel some guilt.  That didn't surprise him. Her Irish Catholic roots were strong, and that meant that guilt was a part of her life.  Dr. Lecter privately found it amusing.  The one time she had mentioned it, she had reminded him that she hadn't asked him to burn the pictures he had.  

                For his part, he was not angry.  He supposed he would be jealous if she kept pictures of an old boyfriend around.  He still had the images of Clarice in his memory palace.  It simply wasn't the same, though.  He'd gotten a certain pleasure from being able to see them and touch them.  But hopefully this would still her disquietude.  

                Dr. Lecter opened the paper and flipped through it calmly.  As was his wont, he examined the agony column.  He'd done so for years. Every week, he'd hoped for an ad to appear at the top of the column.  It never had.  This time, he opened the paper.  His maroon eyes widened as he saw letters he had given up hope of ever seeing across the top of the page.  

_A.A. Aaron – _

_A robin red-breast in a cage, puts all of Heaven in a rage.  I need to see you in Times Square shortly.  Thinking desperately of you and yours.  Hannah. _

Dr. Lecter tilted his head and pondered.  A robin red-breast was obviously herself, a bird.  In a cage?  However had that happened?  There was nothing in the _Tattler _about Clarice's incarceration.  

Times Square.  Obviously, New York.  Dr. Lecter thought of the article he had seen in the _Tattler _a few days before.  Undercover federal agents in state prisons.  Clarice had been part of that.  Where would they have put her?  Not the easy, minimum security places.  Clarice was far stronger than that; they would not waste her steel on such a place.  No, Clarice had been undercover somewhere harsh, he had a feeling.  

The timing was exquisitely poor.  For the first time in a long time they had a policeman in pursuit of them.  Dr. Lecter didn't know how much longer he could hold the detective off.   She had the look of the kind who wouldn't give up, who would ferret something out.   

And what of his wife?  What would she say?  He wanted simpler things these days:  the pleasures of fatherhood, his wealth, and his marriage.  Peace and order.  Now it seemed he would be giving up the last two, at least for a bit.  Yet Erin would come around, he had no doubt of that.  She spent her days making people's lives better.  She'd saved Clarice's life a few years ago, as a matter of fact.  Surely she could not condone her rival being incarcerated.  

Dr. Lecter rose and returned to his den to examine the _Tattler _article.  There it was. There was no more picture of the false Clarice, but the text remained.  _Agent Clarice Starling was inserted undercover into Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, New York's maximum-security prison for women.  Some of the most feared female monsters in the country are held there.  _

Erin glanced up at him as he re-entered.  Calmly, he sat down next to her on the couch.  He cleared his throat.  

"Erin, may I discuss something with you?"  

She eyed him for a moment.  "Of course," she said.  "About what?"  

Dr. Lecter smiled tightly.  "About Clarice," he said.  

He could see her expression shift to a guarded look.  "All right," she said.  "Look,  _I _didn't make you burn your pictures."  

"It's not about that," Dr. Lecter said.  "I believe she needs help."  


	14. Want of a Nail

                _Author's note:  This chapter got hung up for a bit.  Writer's block, combined with the fact that the Alice fic was going a lot easier.  But here we are…_

Dr. Lecter eyed his wife calmly.  It was important that this go well.  He had the feeling that it would, in the end.  It was getting there that was the problem.  Erin was at heart a good woman and would not turn away from someone needing help.  What she needed help with herself was accepting that Clarice was not a threat to her.  

                "How would Clarice need our help?" she asked disbelievingly.  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  "If I discuss this with you, there need to be terms," he said calmly.  "You must be willing to hear me out." 

                "Fine," Erin said crossly.  

                "Not the way you are now.  You're determined to believe Clarice is the enemy.  Simply hear me out, Erin.  That's all I ask."  

                Erin crossed her arms and eyed him as suspiciously as the prosecutor of his case once had.  

                "Look," Dr. Lecter said.  "In the copy of the _Tattler _that I had before, there was an article about Clarice's involvement in a prison scandal.  It stated that undercover agents were put into the nation's prisons.  There were two women in the picture in the _Tattler._   One woman was identified as Rebecca DeGould.  The one who plotted against Clarice before.  You remember her, don't you?"  

                Erin nodded unwillingly.  

                  "The other woman was identified as Clarice, and resembled her to some degree, I'll allow that.  But it was _not _Clarice.  It was a woman of her height and weight, and her hair was cut in Clarice's style.  I know Clarice, Erin.  That was not her."  

                Erin let out a sigh.  "Maybe it was a mistake," she said.  "We're talking about the _Tattler.  _It's not the _New York Times._"  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head.  "Then why would Clarice send us a message asking for our help?  Rebecca DeGould was a schemer.  Perhaps she is back to her old tricks."  

                Erin shifted uncomfortably.  "And maybe it's a trap," she said.  

                Dr. Lecter exhaled.  "Why would Clarice do that?  She's been willing to leave us be for years.  Why go to all this extent?"  

                His wife was unconvinced.  "That detective is on the prowl," she pointed out.  "She mentioned studying under Clarice."  

                "It's not her style," Dr. Lecter said.  "Clarice rarely sneaks around.  She finds such things to be dirty pool."  

                "No," Erin pointed out, "she sends twenty people to grab you and stuff you in a cell and make you fly across the Atlantic in handcuffs, and then she threatens you with taking away everything you hold dear."  She trembled a bit.  

                Dr. Lecter put his hand on his wife's shoulder and smiled tolerantly.  "Do you still hold it against her that she captured you?" he asked.  "Is _that _what all this is about?"  

                "Part of it," Erin said stubbornly.  "You trust her to the ends of the earth.  I don't.  You and I have a life.  And a son.  I'm not ready to risk everything because of an ad in the paper.  What if it _is _a trap?  What if you go gallivanting off to the US and there are a bunch of FBI agents on the plane with you who arrest you the minute the plane touches down?  What am I supposed to tell Michael?  That he's never going to see his father again because some woman his father once knew put an ad in the paper and off he went to his capture?"  Tears began to glitter in her eyes.  "You told me about how much losing Mischa hurt you.  What about your own son, Hannibal?  If I don't matter enough to you to keep you from wanting to fly halfway around the world to be the big white knight, does Michael?"

                Dr. Lecter had to be careful.  He did love Erin.  And his own son – his own flesh and blood – meant more to him than anything else on earth.  To be forced to choose between them and helping Clarice would be a most painful choice in any case.

                "The risk is lower than you think, I believe," Dr. Lecter said judiciously.  "We've noticed no more surveillance than normal.  If the FBI and the local police had pierced our identity, do you not think that they would have brought us in by now?"  

                "Maybe this is what they're waiting for," Erin riposted.  "Knowing that Dr. Lecter would go to help Clarice.  All you have is a fake ad in the paper.  Maybe this is just a scheme on the part of the FBI to see if you'll bite when they put the right bait on the hook."  

                Dr. Lecter put his hand on her shoulder.  "And what if it is not?  What if Clarice is in trouble?"  

                "Why does she need _you_ for that?" Erin asked, not without logic.  "Why would Clarice be in prison anyway?  _She _isn't the fugitive.  _We _are."  

                "The woman in the picture was attempting to pass for Clarice," Dr. Lecter explained.  "The same hairstyle, the same clothing.  Perhaps someone pulled a switch.  Like perhaps Agent Rebecca DeGould, who has already once attempted to engineer Clarice's downfall." 

                "And perhaps she's trying to engineer yours," Erin said.  Her face worked.  "What if that detective comes after Michael and me while you're off with your old flame?  What happens if you come back and find me in prison and Michael in…in an orphanage somewhere?"  

                That gave him some food for thought.  Like Clarice, Erin was an orphan.  It was fairly obvious that her issues with Clarice stemmed from multiple factors.  Clarice's prior capture of her.  The fact that she'd considered Clarice a potential rival for Dr. Lecter's affections.  And here was something else, something deeper.  An orphan's deep-seated fear of abandonment.  

                _Just how do I attract these women? _Dr. Hannibal Lecter thought.  

                "Is that what you fear?' Dr. Lecter asked.  His tone was kind and gentle.  He was known far and wide for his cruelty, but compassion was not completely alien to him.  He never could have been the world-class psychiatrist he had been without being able to understand others.  In the doctor's case, he possessed a remarkable ability to understand while turning off his empathy at will.  "That I would leave you for Clarice?  That while I wish to help Clarice, that I would turn my back on you, were you in the same plight?"  

                Erin said nothing but seemed defensive.  

                "I assure you that is not the case.  You are my wife.   When you _were _captured, I sought you out.  It was simple luck that you escaped before I was able to get to you, not lack of dedication on my part.  Now, allow me to ask you something."  

                "All right," she said, sounding a bit choked.  

                "What if Clarice were in desperate straits and needed help?  Would you turn your back on her?"  

                Her face worked.  She was a surgeon; her life's work revolved around helping people who, in Dr. Lecter's opinion, often didn't deserve it.  Occasionally she had to be reminded of her better nature, but that was all right.  

                "No," she said unwillingly.  Then she immediately followed that by adding, "But you don't _know _that she needs help."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  "Then I shall do some background checking to see if this is true or not," he said.  "Would that suffice?"  

                She seemed distrustful and stiff.  But finally she exhaled.  "Yes, all right."  

                "Very well, then."  

                "There's just one thing," Erin said softly, and her face filled with pain. 

                Dr. Lecter opened his hands.  "And what would that be?"  

                "I know what you want," Erin said, and tears rose to her eyes.  "You want to get on a plane and go to her.  That's what you want, and that's what you're going to end up doing.  I can tell.  I've been married to you long enough to know."  

                "Erin," Dr. Lecter said calmly, "I only mean to help Clarice."  

                "I know," Erin said.  "But if she's the one you want…if everything I've given up and done for you _hasn't _been enough…then tell me now.  I'll take Michael and I'll go somewhere else.  It's been good here and I hate leaving, but I'll leave this life before I have it taken away from me."  

                "I assure you," Dr. Lecter said, "Everything will be fine."  

                She shook her head slowly.  "I'm not sure it will be," she said in a powerless whisper.  "I can't stop you from leaving.  If you want to go you're going to go.  But don't just abandon me to a prison cell, Hannibal.  I'll take Michael and leave the country and find someplace to go."  

                "You talk as if I'm never coming back," Dr. Lecter observed.  

                "I don't know that you will," Erin replied.  

                Dr. Lecter realized what she meant; that he would either be captured…or that he would leave her to be with Clarice.  The vein of insecurity ran far deeper in her than he had thought.  What she meant she did not have to say:  if she thought he was not coming back, she would flee herself.  And if that happened, he would never see his wife or his son again.  

…

                For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost – when you break the old rhyme down, that is the essential meaning.  Small things create small consequences that escalate.   For Rebecca DeGould, there was no horseshoe nail.  Instead, there was a soda can lying in the middle of the road to Clarice Starling's duplex.  

                She was driving her _faux _Starling and Mapp back to their duplex.  They could drive around all they wanted themselves.  When she wanted them to go somewhere or do something, she would drive.  It was better to make sure that the little twits didn't have the opportunity to screw up.  Fortunately, she'd chosen well.  Both women resembled their targets enough so that if you didn't know them personally they would pass.  Both women were also quiet, docile little things who would do what they were told.  

                She had given them some files on Clarice and Ardelia and ordered them to memorize them.  Mostly, it was the basics.  Where Clarice and Ardelia had gone to school.  What well-known cases they had worked on.  Enough to give them a basis to pass by the casual observer.  Both of them were still on leave from the FBI.  

                Brittany Tollman sat in the back seat, carefully studying the papers she had been given.  Her lips moved carefully, shaping the words as she read them.  She wanted to commit them to memory. Miss DeGould had told her to.  

 Pleasing Rebecca DeGould was important to Brittany.  Only Miss DeGould had seen fit to give her a second chance.  That was all she had ever wanted.  She wasn't as bad as they'd said she was.   She'd desperately wanted to be good.  She wanted a family, a job, a quiet little anonymous life.  She hadn't killed anyone; her boyfriend had.  Her boyfriend had kidnapped _her _and beaten her until she did what he wanted.   But no one cared about her or her side of the story.  But after five years in prison, she had accepted that she wasn't ever going to get a break.  The system had thrown her in prison and there she would remain.  No one gave a crap about her.    

And then Lieutenant Beck had called her into his office.  Miss DeGould had been there, in her power suit and her careful Northeastern pronunciation.  She'd been quite intimidating, even though then she had been nice.  Brittany had been able to sense the mailed fist in the velvet glove.  They'd closed the door and quietly explained their offer to her.  _Do what we tell you, when we tell you to do it…don't ask too many questions…you'll be out and you'll be free.  You won't be able to see your family ever again.  But you'll have a second chance.  That's what you want, isn't it?  _

And that was what she'd wanted.   Sometimes she felt bad for Starling.  According to DeGould Starling was dangerous anyway.  She would've gone to prison already if she hadn't been an FBI agent, DeGould had said.  _That _rang true to Brittany.  Cops always protected their own.  If you had a badge you could do whatever you damned well pleased and no one would stop you.  

Brittany was not an amoral creature, and occasionally, in going through Clarice's things at the duplex she would feel guilty.  She and Kiera had done some poking around on the Internet, once they had figured out how to make Clarice's computer work.  They'd found out about Chowchilla, and they both knew exactly where the women they had replaced would be going.  

Kiera didn't talk much about it, but Brittany suspected that she had some doubt.  Brittany knew she did.  The first night after she'd read about what the Chowchilla SHU was like, she hadn't been able to sleep.  Wearing Clarice Starling's pajamas, lying in Clarice Starling's bed, she'd pondered what she was doing and found it impossible to sleep.  Then she thought about what had happened to her, and what _would _happen to her if she was caught, and she swallowed her doubts and resolved to keep up with it.  

The next day, though, she'd gone and bought a money order for a hundred dollars and sent it to the New York Department of Corrections with her name and inmate number on it.  It was a stupid gesture.  She knew that.  So inadequate as to be laughable.  But it was the only kind of gesture she could make at all, and so she did it.  Maybe, one day, Agent Starling wouldn't hate her.  Miss DeGould would have been furious if she found out.  Brittany hoped she didn't.  Scary though her benefactor might be, she was the only benefactor Brittany had.

The free world was better than Brittany could have ever hoped.  She and Kiera were becoming fast friends.  She had her freedom.  She wasn't dumb, and she knew that she would have to get a job eventually.  That was fine with her.  Miss DeGould said she could arrange for something.  Maybe she and Kiera could get a place in New York City, or something.  

So she dedicated herself to studying and memorizing the information DeGould wanted her to.  And when DeGould swerved to avoid the soda can that lay in the road where a careless driver had flung it out his window, Brittany's papers scattered on the rear floor well of the car.  

Miss DeGould would yell at her and Brittany sometimes, when she was mad.  Brittany didn't want to make Miss DeGould mad.   Her second chance, her _only _chance, lay in the balance.  Her private nightmare was that somehow, she would end up discovered and back in prison.  If she was ever sent back, they'd try her for escape and she'd never, ever, get out.  

When Brittany's papers scattered on the floor, then, she simply bent down to gather them up as quickly as she could.  She didn't want DeGould to yell at her.  Miss DeGould was driving and didn't pay attention.  She also picked up something that had not been in her papers.  

Clarice Starling had been fingerprinted before joining the FBI.  This was mandatory for all FBI employees.  One copy of her fingerprint record was down in Central Filing.  Rebecca DeGould had already gotten that one and destroyed it.  But another hard copy had been taken at the branch office that had recruited her.  That had taken a bit more work for Rebecca DeGould to obtain control of, as it had required a trip to Wheeling with a phony court order.  

She'd put it in the car and not thought terribly much about it.  Clarice was going back to population.  If Beck were smart, he'd have her back in lockdown for a few fights.  DeGould thought that he ought to arrange a murder or something, something so horrible that they could just ship Clarice out to Chowchilla and be done with it once and for all.  

Brittany was nervous as she grabbed up her papers, and when she saw Clarice Starling's name on it, she simply stuffed it in her file with the rest of the papers.  When DeGould pulled into the driveway of the duplex, she simply let them out and admonished them not to use the phone.  The fingerprint card contained Clarice's true fingerprints was brought into the house with the rest of Brittany's paperwork.  

A simple castoff soda can and Brittany Tollman's twinge of conscience had begun to derail Rebecca DeGould's plans.  


	15. Policewomen and Cannibals

                _Author's note:  Yes, this has been a while in the coming.  I made myself work on this chapter today.  So here we are.  _

                Detective Isabelle Pierce was thinking.  

                She'd been working on her profile of the Cannibal Killer.  So far, everything she had come up with pointed very strongly to Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  The same precision cuts, the same missing organs.  The later murders suggested that the killer was getting cocky, using smaller cuts to access the internal body cavity.  Or perhaps that meant that Dr. Lander was helping Dr. Lecter.  She would know how to pull someone's innards out; she did it every day.  

                She'd been ordered to keep away from the Littons.  She didn't want to do that.  Not when there was plenty of evidence pointing to the Littons as being the Lecters.  _The Lecters.  _It sounded odd, as if a cannibalistic psychiatrist might have transformed himself into a family man with his fugitive surgeon wife and their little son.  

                Isabelle Pierce was a dedicated detective, and she was determined to see this through.  If she had to keep her pursuit of the Littons undercover, she would do that.  So far, she hadn't been able to turn up much.  But she couldn't keep them under 24-hour surveillance herself.  If they were committing the murders, then they had to be doing it at night.  Both of them were going to work normally.  

                Now she had an opportunity to see Elaine Litton again.  It was perfectly above board.  Her followup appointment was today.  This could be tense, she thought.  Was the surgeon suspicious?  Was she involved in the murders?  

                She doubted Elaine Litton would try to do anything to her in the medical office.  That was unlikely; there would be records of her entry and the staff would have seen her.  No, there was little danger in keeping her post-op appointment.  She doubted the surgeon would try to physically attack her.  Elaine Litton was not exactly capable of great physical violence.  

                Calmly, she entered the waiting room and sat down.  Dr. Litton's surgical practice was located in some office buildings near the hospital.  It was quite posh, all things considered.  Isabelle flipped through a magazine and tilted her head.  She could hear two of the office staff talking.  Carefully, she focused her eyes on the magazine and her attention on the chatting office mates.    

"Dr. Litton doesn't seem quite herself today," one of them said.  "Is something wrong?"  

                "I don't know," the other replied.  "She said something about her husband being called out of town unexpectedly." 

                "Poor thing," the first replied.  "She's awfully stressed about it."  

                 Isabelle continued to stare at the magazine until her eyes blurred.  That was just fine; she had no real interest in mascara or diet tips.  All her attention was focused on her ears.

                _Right, _she thought.  _Dr. Hamilton Litton went on holiday, did he?  Just after getting me off his back?  Very interesting. Fleeing, perhaps?  But why didn't his wife go with him? Where is their little boy?  Are they making preparations to flee? Perhaps that's it, they're getting him out and then she'll follow.  _

 They called her name a few moments later.  The private system had its benefits.  Isabelle went down the hall with the receptionist and was installed in an exam room.  The receptionist handed her a paper gown and offered her a plastic smile.  

                "The doctor will be right in," she said.  

                The gown would be necessary; they were treating her for a bullet wound to the chest, after all.  It was long enough to cover her gun, and that was good.  The weight of the heavy pistol on her belt made her feel more comfortable.  

                Perhaps ten minutes later, the door opened to admit the short form of Elaine Litton.  Isabelle glanced at her carefully.  She seemed tense and drawn.  She offered the detective a short, pulled smile and examined her chart.  

                "G'day," she said, the word sounding odd spoken in an American accent.  Apparently the past few years in Australia had begun to rub off on her.  

                "G'day, Dr. Litton," the detective said.  She kept a close eye on the surgeon as her shoulder was exposed to reveal the wound.   She was tense, that was clear.  Detective Pierce didn't think it had to do with her, though.  She thought of the domestic arguments she'd had to break up during her first few years on the force.  Women holding back stress and secrets.  That more than anything was what the doctor reminded her of.    

                "How are you feeling?" Dr. Litton asked distantly.  

                "Better," Isabelle said.  "Look…I guess I should apologize about before.  It was a bit of a misunderstanding."  

                "That's all right," Dr. Litton replied too quickly.  "You just surprised my husband a bit."  Her mouth quirked.  

                "How is your husband?"  

                "Oh, he's just fine," Dr. Litton said.  Thunderstorms brewed in the tone of her voice.  All was clearly _not _fine at Chez Litton.  She examined the sutures and nodded.  "All right," she said in a more businesslike tone.  "Let me get the ultrasound and we'll have a look inside."  

                A few moments later she was back, wielding a machine and wand.  The ultrasound goo was cold on the detective's shoulder.  Dr. Litton piloted the wand over her skin, her eyes intent on the monitor.  

                "How is the hunt for the killer going?" Dr. Litton asked calmly.  

                "We're doing our best," the detective acknowledged.  

                "Good," the surgeon said in a clipped tone.  "Well, good news.  Your wound looks just fine.  Should heal up with no complications.  I don't think you'll need to come back here."  

                She stepped back and offered her hand tentatively.  Detective Pierce took it, wondering if there was some trick or not.  Dr. Litton offered her a calm smile and a goodbye before moving on to her next patient.  

                Detective Pierce thought about what was going on.  She ought to check and see if Dr. Hamilton Litton had departed the country.  What sort of passport _did _he have, anyway?  As she headed out to her Holden, she glanced over at the small, sporty Mercedes convertible parked in the small area reserved for the doctors.  She knew that it belonged to Elaine Litton.  

                Walking around the back of the Mercedes was a figure.  His steps described a semicircle around the back end of the car.  Back and forth, back and forth.  The detective's eyes narrowed.  She began to walk down the steps.  Well, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to intervene.   It might just be some yobbo thinking that perhaps the surgeon kept plentiful quantities of drugs in her car.   They'd run across _that _plenty of times; some of these people got the idea that doctors drove around with drugs in their cars to dispense them like candy.   Perhaps it was something…worse.  

                Isabelle Pierce fumbled in her pocket for her ID.  She kept her right hand close to her gun.  As she descended the steps to the parking lot, the figure began to run.   Isabelle quickened her steps and reached for the Browning 9mm in her belt holster.  

                "Stop!" she called.  "Police!"  

                A piece of paper escaped the pocket of the running figure.  Isabelle pursued grimly, grateful she'd worn her comfortable shoes today.  The figure rounded a corner.  A few minutes later she rounded the same corner, only to find nothing there save a chain-link fence.  On the other side, a door to the hospital closed.  Her lips split back from her teeth.  _Bloody hell!  _

But there was something.  On the ground in front of the fence was a piece of paper.  She scowled at it and picked it up.  Her expression changed from peeved to surprise as she read its contents.  It was the pathology report on Anthony Page, the latest Cannibal-Killer victim.  

                She walked back to her car, meaning to call down a unit.  She felt both pique and interest.  What was going on here?  Either way, the good doctor Litton was coming in for questioning.  If Detective Pierce could get the OK to fingerprint her, she would.  If she did, then she suspected Elaine Litton would be going to jail until she was turned over to the Americans.  

                The passenger door of her Holden hung open.  At the sight of that, Detective Pierce pulled out her gun and aimed it at the car as if it might attack her.  She walked forward quite carefully.  

                On the passenger seat of her car was a Tupperware container.  Along with it was a note written in straggling red letters.  She glanced in the container and saw chopped-up meat and what looked like vegetables.  Curious, she sniffed the top.   The sharp aroma of onions hit her nostrils.  Then she looked back at the note.  

                _Join me in some haggis, Detective?  _  

…

                Here in the grim, gray little cell, she knew despair.  

                She was allowed out for an hour or so for exercise on a single, fenced-in yard.  She was allowed to call her attorney.  And that was it.  Hours and hours and hours of isolation had left their mark on her.  Clarice Starling was here, locked in this cell, forbidden to associate with anyone. 

                She knew intellectually that she shouldn't give in to despair.  Paul was trying to get her out.  Maybe Dr. Lecter would help her too.  She had placed the ad a few days ago.  But nothing had changed.  She stayed in lockdown.  Nothing to do, nothing to occupy her mind.  She decided that if she ever got out of here, she would do everything in her power to see that this was stopped.  No one deserved this.  

                But getting out seemed like such a vague possibility.  Her prior life seemed so far away.   Had she ever been an FBI agent before?  She was beginning to wonder.  Perhaps it had all been a dream.  Perhaps she really _was _Brittany Tollman.  Then she would scold herself and tell herself not to give in.  She couldn't.  She could not let Rebecca DeGould win.  

                But then the despair would come creeping back, like a monster on soft padded feet, slithering into her mind.  She would flop down on her uncomfortable little bunk and try to keep from sobbing.   Had Paul forsaken her?  Had Dr. Lecter?  It seemed irretrievably so.   

                Either way, she was here, and she wasn't getting out.  

                She could hear someone moving down the hall.  He asked a few questions of the prisoner in each cell, and then moved on.  Sounded like a doctor.  It was stupid, so freaking useless.  As he drew closer she could hear him asking each inmate if she felt all right.  Then it was her turn.  

                The doctor stared in at her calmly.  She saw him and her jaw dropped.  It was…it was…

                "Hello," the doctor said in a calm, cultured voice.  There was a metallic tone to his voice.  "I'm the new doctor for this facility."  He chuckled at her.  "My name is Dr. John Crawford.  I'm coming around to introduce myself.  Also to see if any of the inmates in solitary confinement are in need of medical attention.  After all, to be incarcerated by oneself in a cell can be quite…inconvenient."  

                Clarice Starling stared at Dr. Hannibal Lecter and arranged her jaw.  There was a guard with him, so she had to be careful.  She stopped and thought.  What would get her out of here?  

                "Thank you, Dr. Crawford," she choked.  "I do…I do have some pain in…my stomach."  

                "I see," he said.  "How bad is it, would you say?"  

                "Pretty painful," she assured him.  

                "Very well.  Allow me to see to the rest of these inmates and we'll come back for you, hmmm?"  The doctor grinned as if this was all amusing.  

                He turned to leave then, accompanied by the guard.  Clarice Starling sat down on her bunk and felt an unfamiliar feeling in her stomach.  Not the false pain she had described.  She felt…hope.   


	16. Gains and Losses

                _Author's note:  I know a few people had been campaigning for an angsty H/C scene, and we'll get there in the next chapter.  (You know who you are.)  But for now, Clarice and the GD are together…but elsewhere, things are not working out quite as well…_

It was about twenty minutes until they came back to her cell.  Clarice saw a few faceless, grinning guards and ignored them.  Then there was Dr. Lecter.  She grinned calmly and put her arms out of her food slot in order to be cuffed.  Dr. Lecter grinned back at her.  This had to be just _so _amusing for him.  After all these years, _she _was the one in the cell.  

                Calmly, Clarice walked down to the infirmary.  She worked her face into an expression of pain for the guards' benefit.  Once there, the guards took her cuffs off and left the two of them alone.  Dr. Lecter gestured grandly to the table.  

                Clarice grabbed him around the neck as tight as she could.  Pure gratitude bolted through her. She held him tight for a few moments.  Then it occurred to her that he was married, and she let him go.  

                "You came," she whispered, a lump heavy in her throat.  

                "Yes."  Dr. Lecter sought to maintain a professional demeanor.  

                "How?"  

                Dr. Lecter chuckled.  "Prisons often have difficulty finding doctors who are willing to work there," he explained.  "As you've noticed, the quality of care is atrocious.  Erin would be scandalized to see what the prisons provide.  

                Clarice nodded.  

                "As a result, it is relatively simple to be hired on – all one needs is a pulse and a valid license to practice, and there you are.  Now tell me, does your stomach hurt there?"  He pressed her abdomen.  

                Clarice shook her head.  

                "Are you sure?  It's _quite _painful, isn't it?"  He jerked his head at the door.  Beyond that lay the guards.  

                _Oh.  Duh.  _"Oh, yes," she said.  She let out a pained wail.  The guards leaned in the doorway.  Dr. Lecter waved them off.  

                "It's all right," he said.  

                He puttered around for about ten minutes more, deliberately wasting their time.  Then he rose and walked outside to the door, glacially calm and dignified.  

                "This inmate is in severe abdominal pain," he said.  "Possibly an ectopic pregnancy, or perhaps appendicitis.  I am ordering you to obtain an ambulance and transport her to the hospital."  

                The guard nodded.  "Sure thing, doc," he said.  

                Dr. Lecter eyed the guard coolly for a moment, as he was not fond of being called 'doc'.  But it was not worth the effort now.  Now it was time to get Clarice free.  After that…they would see.  

                It took perhaps fifteen minutes for an ambulance to be dispatched to the prison.  Clarice lay back on her cot and loudly wailed and cried out her pain.  Dr. Lecter seemed to find this all _terribly _amusing.  

                It was so damn _easy_, Clarice thought.  All of Rebecca DeGould's plans laid at naught.  All these gates and bars and walls…and all she needed to get out of here was a sympathetic doctor.  

                They loaded Clarice into the ambulance.  Dr. Lecter hopped into the ambulance with her.  The guard glanced at him.  

                "I'll be back shortly," he said.  "I just need to ensure this inmate's safety."  

                The guard blinked in befuddlement, as if caring for an inmate's health was an alien concept.  

                Dr. Lecter sat back and calmly issued a series of orders to the medical team.  He glanced out the porthole and waited until they had cleared the front gate of the prison.  Then, he struck.  

                The two paramedics working on Clarice were easy prey.  Dr. Lecter grabbed the first one and smashed his head against the metal table.  He fell unconscious without another word.  Without missing a beat, Dr. Lecter grabbed the second by the throat.  His strong fingers clamped around the paramedic's neck and began to squeeze.  A few minutes later he, too, fell limp.  

                To take out the driver was a simple matter, and Dr. Lecter slipped behind the wheel and assumed control of the ambulance.  He drove down a bit to a parking lot, where he pulled the ambulance into a space and slipped out of the car.  Clarice unbuckled herself from the stretcher and joined him.  

                A small, trim Toyota sat waiting nearby.  Dr. Lecter gestured to it.  From his pocket he withdrew a set of keys.  Clarice grinned at him as he opened her door.  Once in the car, Dr. Lecter handed her a sweatshirt and a wide-legged pair of jeans.  

                "Thank you," Clarice said softly.  

                "You're quite welcome, Clarice.  Seeing you again was well worth it."   He chuckled.  "Although I never did suspect that _I _would see _you _in a prison cell."  

                "It was an undercover mission," Clarice explained.  "DeGould backstabbed me.  Switched my identity with another inmate.  God only knows what she was planning to do to me."  

                "I suspect it would not have been good," Dr. Lecter quipped.  His hands were firm on the wheel.  Clarice noticed a gold wedding band on his left hand and inhaled sharply.  

                "So…," she said, and felt lame.  But she _had _to say it.  Things had changed between them.  "So how are you?  And…and Erin, and your baby?"  

                "We're doing relatively well," Dr. Lecter said.  "Michael is three now.  He's into everything. There's a bit of an issue going on at home, but perhaps you'd be willing to help us out there, for old time's sake.  We'll get to that, though."  

                The drive from Bedford Hills to New York City was not terribly long, and the traffic moved nicely.  As they drove, Clarice ran down what Rebecca DeGould had set afoot for her.  It was far easier to discuss that.  There were too many mines laid in other paths to risk going down them now. 

                "So," Dr. Lecter said, "tell me about this Brittany girl."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "She swapped with me," she said indifferently.  "Not much to tell."  

                "I would suspect therein lies your best chance of defeating your enemies," Dr. Lecter said.  "Detective work may not suffice; Agent DeGould is a far more dangerous adversary than Mr. Krendler ever was.   He was largely a mid-level bureaucrat with an essentially rudimentary grasp of power politics.  She seems far more malicious and capable of planning.  If she's covered enough of her bases, you'll need a witness to clear this all up.  I would not be surprised to hear that she has.  Take her pawns, Clarice.  You'll need them.  Both, if you can get them."  He chuckled.  

                Clarice sighed.  "I'll have a look and see," she said.  "Maybe she'll deal.  Maybe she won't."  

                "Do you hate them?"  

                Clarice paused.  "No," she said shortly.  "DeGould waved freedom under their noses.  She knows how to prey on despair."  

                "Then you must find them, and force that despair to work in your favor rather than DeGould's."  

                Clarice nodded, the dash lights reflecting back green in her face.  "I figured," she said.  

                "And do not under any circumstances let them bring her back here," Dr. Lecter advised.  "Charles DeGould runs a major brokerage house in Manhattan.  This is Rebecca DeGould's base of power.  In Virginia, you have allies.  Here, she can slide around you with a few telephone calls to the right bureaucrats.  Keep away from New York, Clarice, and keep your little doppelganger out of here too.  Sending her back here would be no different to sending her to Rebecca DeGould with a ribbon around her neck."   

                "You sound awfully concerned about _her_," Clarice quipped.  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  "Now you sound like Erin," he said.  "My sympathies _do _lie with anyone who escapes incarceration.  Nonetheless, Clarice, you must think tactically.  Make no mistake; Rebecca DeGould has gone to war with you.  Win the war first; _then _you may assuage your strong sense of right and wrong."  

                The lights of New York City lay ahead like a fabulous diamond.  Dr. Lecter picked up the Major Deegan Expressway and gained access to Manhattan with little difficulty.  Clarice found herself not surprised when he pulled up by the Four Seasons hotel in midtown Manhattan.  It was quite elegant and remarkable.  Dr. Lecter offered her his arm, as if she was dressed in a fine ball gown instead of a sweatshirt and jeans over a prison uniform.                       

                Dr. Lecter's suite was as wonderful as she had thought he would choose.  Then again, after the bare little concrete cell she had been held in for the past few weeks, anything would have seemed like paradise.  There were windows.  Now, for the first time, she truly understood why he had seen fit to mention that in his letter.  She ran greedily over to the window and pulled the curtain aside to enjoy the twinkling lights of the city.  The glass was cold against her palms and nose.  She watched the lights and traffic with the undisguised glee of a child.  

                "It _is _lovely, is it not?"  Dr. Lecter smiled.  "Perhaps you might enjoy a shower, Clarice.  I'll call room service for some dinner."  

                The bathroom was tiled with white marble, and the floor wasn't covered with mold and fungus.  She didn't have to share with twenty other naked women.  Clarice found herself singing in the shower despite herself.  

                When she got out, there was a silk dressing gown hanging from the door hook. She slipped into that and walked out.  Dr. Lecter was puttering around the table, which was set for two with a fine meal.  Clarice had spent the past month eating food that was barely fit for human consumption, and in stingy proportions.  Her stomach growled audibly at the sight of the food.  Dr. Lecter grinned.  

                The meal was every bit as excellent as she had hoped.  There was so _much _of it.  She thought about what she'd told Dr. Lecter about Brittany in the car.  She couldn't hate the girl; it was DeGould's fault.  But for now she didn't want to worry about that.  

                "Thank you," she said softly, smiling over her glass at Dr. Lecter.  

                "You're quite welcome, Clarice," he said.  "Did you ever think it could be like this?"  

                For a moment, pain stabbed them both, knowing that it was too late.  He could offer her this opulence and gratitude once, but he could not offer it to her permanently.  Clarice glanced out over the New York skyline and thought about the choice she had made.  

                "I know now," she said softly.  "We have…a lot to talk about.  About you and me."  

…

                Night in the quiet, blue-collar neighborhood was quiet.  Working-class people dwelled here, and they needed their sleep.  At two o'clock in the morning, the duplex was peaceful.  A silver Audi with New York plates hummed down the street and pulled quietly into the driveway.  The lights flared red once, and then the woman inside got out and walked carefully to the door.  She rang the doorbell and waited impatiently.  

                Brittany Tollman awoke when she heard the bell.  Five years of prison had accustomed her to being woken up at all hours.  Even eight hours of uninterrupted sleep was a luxury.  She blinked owlishly as she approached the door, wearing Clarice Starling's robe and Clarice Starling's slippers.  When she saw her patron waiting outside, her eyes widened.  

                "Miss DeGould," Brittany said sleepily.  "What're you doing here? It's..," she glanced over at the clock.  "It's two in the morning."  

                "I know," Rebecca DeGould said.  "Open the door and let me in.  We have a problem.  Get Kiera up, too."  

                Brittany blinked again and proceeded over to Kiera's side of the duplex.  A few moments later, the black girl was up as well. They stood and stared at their benefactor mutely.  

                "Girls," Rebecca DeGould said.  "We have a bit of a problem.  It seems Clarice Starling has escaped from prison."  

                Brittany Tollman's eyes widened and her knees gave out.   Tears rose to her eyes.   She collapsed into a chair, shuddering.  Her second chance, so dear and precious to her, all teetering on the brink.  Were they going to send her back to prison?  She'd rather die. 

Besides, Starling would _kill _her if she ever caught her.  She'd seen the pictures.  Clarice Starling was goddam dangerous.  A serial killer with an FBI badge, Miss DeGould had said.  There was a serial killer who was pursuing her now, out and free. Behind her, Kiera put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulders, unconsciously mimicking Ardelia Mapp much better than she ever would have thought.  

                "Oh, spare me the melodrama," DeGould snapped.  "The situation is not hopeless.  Honestly, Brittany.  Whenever something goes wrong you fix it.  No _wonder _you landed in prison.  Go out to my car.  There are two white bags in the back seat.  Bring them both in.  Both of you.  Now, move!"  

                Brittany and Kiera walked out to the car.  Stacked in the back seat were two long black plastic bags.  A zipper ran up the middle.  Brittany grabbed one.  It was damn heavy, but she managed to drag it back without too much struggle.  There was something way heavy inside, something that felt hard and unyielding.  Like a metal bar.  

                She was tired and afraid. There was a lunatic bent on revenge after her.  Oh God, hopefully Miss DeGould would protect her.  So it might be forgivable that she did not realize what she was carrying until she got it in the house and dropped it on the floor.  Rebecca DeGould grabbed the zipper in the middle and pulled it back to reveal the pasty gray face of a dead woman.  

                Behind her, Kiera dropped her body bag and screamed piercingly.  Miss DeGould scowled and reached in.  Her hand flashed up, and a flat _crack _echoed in the room.  The coffee-with-cream color of Kiera's cheek began to darken in the shape of Rebecca DeGould's hand.  

                "Don't you scream," Rebecca DeGould said angrily.  "Do as I tell you, goddammit.  Unless you want to end up in the hole in Chowchilla."  

                Tears began to blink into Kiera's eyes, and this time it was Brittany's turn to comfort.  DeGould rolled her eyes.  They were _so _goddam sentimental.  

                "OK, girls," she said.  "Get those bodies in the beds and out of the body bags.  Now.  We have to return them to the morgue."  

                Brittany stared at the corpse on the floor.  Her lip curled away from her teeth in helpless distaste.  DeGould pursed her lips.  

                "If you think it's so gross," she said, "you might prefer cleaning toilets back in Bedford Hills.  Now _move!"  _

The threat of incarceration did the trick.  Brittany began to sob, but she grabbed the body bag and began hauling it back to the bedroom.  Kiera did the same.  DeGould nodded with satisfaction and began to open the duplex's windows.  While she worked, she took out her cell phone and called Sneed.  

                "Hi," she said.  "Are you in position?"  

                The connection was crackly and poor.  But he answered yes.  Rebecca had bought a house across town.  A foreclosure.  It had been dirt cheap to buy.  Now, he would be setting that house on fire for her.  The Fire Department would answer that call first, giving Clarice's duplex an extra ten minutes or so in which to burn.  Good.  Satisfied that Sneed would carry out his part, she continued on with hers.  

                Brittany returned to the kitchen, holding the bag in front of her as if it contained distasteful material.  Tears tracked her face.  DeGould supposed she didn't like handling a dead body.  That was just too goddam bad; did she think her second chance had come for free?  Absolutely not.  

                Rebecca DeGould's heels tapped a staccato against the wooden floor and then a more muted version as she went down the basement stairs.  She opened the basement windows on Clarice's side of the duplex.  Yes, things would start here.   There was paint thinner and other chemicals down here that would get the party rolling _quite _nicely.  Just in case, she headed back to her car and retrieved a gas can filled with five gallons of gasoline.  She sloshed it around the basement, creating quite a stink.  

                After that, she double-checked to make sure the twits had put the bodies in the beds as she had commanded.  It would have made more sense to shoot the girls themselves and leave _their _bodies to be found in the blaze, but she liked this better.  For one thing, it would mean that Brittany and Kiera would remain under her thumb for the rest of their lives.  She liked that sort of power.  Besides, you never knew when you'd need them.  

                "All right, girls," she said.  "Pack your stuff.  We're moving out."  

                The girls took far too long to get whatever stuff they'd bought packed up, but eventually they complied.  Brittany looked at her with wide eyes. 

                "What are you gonna do, Miss DeGould?"  

                DeGould smiled coldly.  "We're going to torch this place," she said.  "Just to make sure.  If there's any place Clarice's DNA can be found, or anything that can identify her, it'll be here.  By taking out this place, we'll make sure that she can't use it."   Her eyes gleamed maliciously at Brittany.  "Trust me, kiddo.  If Clarice Starling is free, the _first _person she is going to target is you."  

                Brittany blanched.  

                "And if she gets ahold of you…you _know _it's not going to be pretty.  She'll take needle-nose pliers to your tender parts, little Brittany.  She is a dangerous, sadistic woman and she has no mercy.  So we're going to do _whatever _it takes to make sure she gets caught again.  Listen to your Auntie Rebecca, Brittany.  You'll never go wrong if you do as I say." 

                Brittany blinked.  "But…but what about the cars?" she asked.  

                "Oh, Jesus Christ," DeGould said irritably.  "Screw the cars!  You don't need them.  We'll arrange for something.  You two will stay with me."  She saw a manila folder on the table.  

                There are times when small things take on much greater import than they would have in the normal scheme of events.  A driver may go through a yellow light only to kill a pedestrian two blocks down the road, whereas had he waited the pedestrian would have crossed the road unmolested.  A police officer stops a car for having no license plate; the driver turns out to be wanted for a major crime.  This was one of those times.  Rebecca DeGould did not grab the folder.  If she had, Clarice Starling's fingerprint card might have fallen out of it.  She would have left it to perish in the flames along with everything else Clarice Starling owned.  

                But she did not.  Instead, she pointed at it.  

                "Get your goddam folder, Brittany.  What is the _matter _with you?"  

                Brittany picked up the folder and stuffed it into the bag she had packed her things in.  

                "Go out to the car.  Both of you," DeGould directed.  The girls complied.  

                A great cool feeling of calm washed over Rebecca DeGould.  Clarice had broken free, but she would not have this place.  DeGould had invaded her home as she saw fit.  Now…it would all be destroyed.  Clarice Starling would be considered Brittany Tollman, a dangerous felon.  Her recapture would likely be a matter of course.  

                DeGould had planned to get everyone she could down to Sydney, since it seemed that Dr. Lecter was down there.  Starling's escape had put that on the back burner.  Had the doctor helped her, she wondered?  She didn't think so.  He had his wife.  He had abandoned Clarice.  Starling had probably turned tricks for a guard or something.  The thought of _that _was immensely pleasurable.  

                _We'll get you, _DeGould thought.  _You started this but I'll finish it.  When I'm done with you, you'll be **begging **for the opportunity to ho for prison guards.  _

But she had a job to do.  Her footsteps rattled on the basement floor.  She had a plastic bag under her arm.  From it she extracted several rags.  The aroma of paint thinner struck her nostrils.  She carefully put the rags in a neat pile near an electrical outlet mounted high on the wall.  Under the rags was a curling iron, and she plugged that into the wall.  

                For just a moment, Rebecca DeGould looked around her.  She wondered if Starling would try to make it here now that she was out.  There was simply no way she could.  Rebecca had gotten the call telling her of Starling's escape at midnight.  Starling had been taken out around six PM.  Even if she had an accomplice, she doubted that Starling would come _right _here.  She'd hole up in New York City and try and get some sleep.  

                In any case, it hardly mattered.  For her own pleasure, she envisioned Clarice Starling standing on the sidewalk outside, dressed in a prison uniform, standing in shock as she stared at the gutted remains of the duplex.  She envisioned the look of shock on Clarice's face and the tears slipping down her cheeks.  To top it off, Clarice Starling's identity would be finally, completely stolen from her.  They would find the two bodies in the house and assume them to be Clarice and Ardelia.  Ardelia would be expressed to Chowchilla in the next week or so; once Clarice was recaptured she would suffer the same fate.  

                Then, she dropped the curling iron into the pile of rags.  It would take a few minutes for it to heat up, and a few minutes more for it to heat up.  If Sneed did his job, the house across town would draw the fire department.  By the time they got here, the house would be ruined.  

                A few minutes later she was in her Audi and heading down the street.  The twits were in the back seat.  Better that they stay in Rebecca's home; she could keep an eye on them better.  She couldn't _believe _the little twits wanted their cars.  They were mostly quiet.  

                Behind her, orange flames began to light the basement windows.  


	17. All We Have Is Tonight

                _Author's note:  Here is the angsty scene, with no other scenes to get in the way.  Although at the rate I'm going this is going to be thirty chapters.  But here you are, Dear Reader.  _

Dinner had been long since eaten.  Two coffee mugs were on the table.   Her silk dressing gown was wonderfully comfortable.  The slippers he had provided were also soft and pleasant on her feet.  Not like her bunny slippers, she noticed.  They were suede and lined with shearling.  They were dignified.   Clarice Starling sat on the couch, still wanting to look at the majesty of the bustling city.  But now they had to talk.  

                She fortified herself with a sip of her cappuccino.  Damn, that was tasty stuff.  Dr. Lecter's tastes had always been the best.  

                _Quit putting it off, Starling, _she told herself.  

                On the other side of the couch, Dr. Lecter smiled.  There was a sense of tension in the air.  They could not and did not want to talk about Rebecca DeGould anymore.  Clarice would have to face her foe, but for now, it was time to talk of the past.  

                Clarice broke the silence.  

                "So," she said, "tell me about your little boy."  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged and smiled a bit nervously.  "Michael's three now," he said.  "He's quite active and playful.  He has these _horrible _videotapes that Erin bought for him.  These monstrous children's singers."  He shuddered a bit.   "Of course, he loves them."  

                Clarice smiled softly.  "Do you have a picture?"  

                Dr. Lecter nodded and removed his wallet.  Black ostrich skin, Clarice thought.  How like him.  From it, he paged through some photographs and finally handed one over.  Clarice extended her hand and took it.  

                The boy had dark hair and pale skin.  His eyes were maroon.  He was carefully groomed for the camera: hair carefully in place, clothes carefully pressed.   He appeared to have none of the cruelty his father was reputed for.  He looked like he was delighted with life, beaming into the camera with a million-watt smile.     

                A lump tickled Clarice's throat and she tried to picture him with brown hair and skin perhaps a shade or two darker. No, she was being silly.  She handed the picture back and cleared her throat to try and force it open.  

                "He's a good-looking boy," she said huskily.

                "Thank you," Dr. Lecter said.  

                "What about those other pictures you put away?" she asked.  

                "Oh," Dr. Lecter said, and appeared to hold his breath for a fraction of a second.  "Those are…just family pictures."  

                _He's trying to be sensitive to your feelings, Clarice.  First goddam time for him, too.  You spent God knows how long denying you were jealous of Erin.  Why make yourself do this?  How about you just go and slam your fingers in the door or something?  You've got nothing to prove.  _

"Can I see those?"  she asked.  Why not?  There was something that drove her to it.  Idly she wondered.  In the orphanage she had grown up in, there had been a few girls who enjoyed cutting themselves.  She'd never understood it for a minute.  When they got upset, zoom, out came the razor blade.  She'd considered it somewhere between weakness and lunacy.  But here she was, asking to see pictures that she _knew _would pierce her heart through.  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged and handed them over.  

                The first was a portrait of Erin with the little boy sitting on her lap.  She wore a dress and seemed the perfect picture of contented motherhood.  Clarice could see the resemblance between mother and son in the photograph.  They had the same fair skin, dark hair, and delicate facial bones.   The image blurred into a prism of tears and for just a moment Clarice saw herself in the picture, holding her own little boy with maroon eyes.  But the plains of possibility had narrowed down to the trail she was currently on, and there was no going back. 

                She set her back teeth against each other and continued on.  The next was a picture of all three – Dr. Lecter, Erin, and Michael.  His hands were on her shoulders.  Michael was on her lap.  A portrait of a happy family.  No one in that family would sleep in a bunk bed in a large room at an orphanage.  Clarice felt her stomach waver and her throat close.

                _That could have been me.  _

But she felt no anger. Neither at Erin nor at Dr. Lecter.  She had been given the opportunity to go with Dr. Lecter; she had turned it down.  Erin had been offered the same opportunity and she had taken it. After that, she had promised to let them live their lives.  She had her principles, and she had stuck to them religiously.  Dr. Lecter killed people because he wanted to.  He'd killed Paul D'angelo, cutting his throat in cold blood and leaving him to die on the floor of an Ohio farmhouse.  He'd killed plenty of other people because they offended him or because they were in his way.  She would not, _could _not be a party to that.  

                But yet it still dug at her, like monstrous fingers sinking into her heart.  No anger, but plenty of regret. How had Erin squared Dr. Lecter's past with his present?  He surely wasn't killing anyone any more.  Clarice would've heard of it if he had.   She gritted her teeth and forced the tears away.   

                The next was a snapshot, carefully trimmed to fit the wallet size.  The composition was exceptionally good for a snapshot.  Somehow that did not surprise her.  It was Erin in a bathing suit and a wide-brimmed hat, Michael in her arms.  Both wore sunglasses.  The baby wore a small Akubra hat and looked adorable.  Michael looked younger in the picture, maybe one.  He was pudgier than he was in the other picture.  They appeared to be going to the beach; sand and shore were behind them.  There was also a black Jaguar convertible in the background.  The top was down.  She closed her eyes and shuddered.  

                This was a picture he'd taken himself.  He'd taken it and cut it out and carried it around with him in his wallet.  It meant something to him.  _Of course it does_, she scolded herself, _it's his wife and son._   His family.  Another woman, in a place she could have occupied.  

                Clarice forced herself to look at the picture again.  The Jaguar's steering wheel was on the right, she noticed faintly.  The license plate was not visible.  Perhaps…perhaps that was better.  

                "Are you…are you happy?"  she asked, her voice carrying just a slight tremolo of emotion.  If she finished the question – _Are you happy with her? _– she knew she would cry.  Her throat worked once and she handed the pictures back to him.  

                Dr. Lecter sighed once.  The question was a veritable minefield.  Mason Verger's deathtrap for him had been nothing by comparison.  Either answer would be painful.  If he said yes, that would doubtlessly hurt her to hear.  No matter how both of them might insist that it didn't, that they had gotten over it, she would be hurt to hear it.  But if he said no – if he suggested that his life with his wife and son was a mere hollow shell – that would hurt her worse.   

                If he had to do this, perhaps best to be honest.  

                "I am…happy, Clarice, but I am torn."  His eyes touched hers and then floated off.  "I do love her," he continued.  "I have since…well, since just after Chesapeake.  Or Columbus, as she thinks of it.  I cannot lie about that."

                The lump in her throat tensed again.  "I wouldn't expect you to," she whispered. 

                He continued as if he had not heard.  "But…I have--," he trailed off.  A pang shot through her stomach. "I have never stopped caring for you, Clarice," he said, and stopped again.  A sip of his cappuccino served to fortify him.  "No.  That's cowardice and I shan't permit it of myself.  I have never stopped _loving _you, either.  After a fashion, in my own way."  He sighed.  "I knew we could never be together.  Your determination for justice, your rage to see the innocent protected.  Your need to see order prevail.  And, yes, to see the guilty punished.  She differs strongly from you there; her ethics are essentially medical in nature.  It's not her place to judge.  She couldn't function if she did.  For you…you could function if you _didn't_."  

                Clarice's eyes began to tear up.  

                "It's pathetically amusing, in a way," Dr. Lecter admitted.  "The classic puerile male fantasy is to have two women.  But to love two women…_that _can be unimaginably painful.  No matter what, you're torn between the two of them, and the situation can never really be resolved.   She doesn't quite understand.  She's never so much as looked at another man since we came to be together.  The only other man in her life is Michael.  That's why she's threatened by you.  I cannot offer her what she offers me."  

                Clarice sighed.  Her throat wavered.  

                "Look," she said regretfully.  "If it means anything to you…if I had it to do over again, I'd have decided differently.  But I can't, not now.  I _won't.  _You have a wife and son.   Even if you offered, right here and right now…and I _know _you can't…I'd have to say no, though.  Knowing you already promised yourself to her…and your son…I wouldn't be a part of ruining that.  I couldn't look at myself in the mirror in the morning if I interfered with that." 

                Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and nodded.  "Of course," he said hoarsely.  "I could not expect you to behave differently."  

                For a moment, there was silence.  A requiem for what could have been and now could never be.  Clarice decided to try something else before she either burst into tears or got sick.  

                "So," she said. "You told me you were having some problems."  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged.  "Apparently a copycat has moved into my current home," he said.  He seemed equally grateful to change the subject.  "There's a detective nosing around.  She suspects our identity but hasn't proved it."  

                Clarice nodded slowly.  "Have they…have the local police asked the Bureau for help?"  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head slowly.  "I don't believe so," he said.  "Although the detective in question knows you.   Erin operated on her."  

                Clarice was puzzled.  "She knows me?"  

                "She attended a class you taught, or something along those lines."  

                Recognition hit Clarice.  "Oh!  Must be one of  the times I taught at the National Academy.  She's foreign, isn't she?"  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  

                "You can tell me where, Dr. Lecter," Clarice said.  "My promise to you hasn't changed.  I'll let you two be.  Maybe I can help."  

                Dr. Lecter took a deep breath.  "Erin would have a fit if she knew I told you," he said, and smiled conspiratorially.  "Very well, Clarice.  Sydney, Australia."  

                Clarice smiled.  "So it's Isabelle Pierce on your tail," she said.  She enjoyed the look of surprise on the doctor's face.  

                "Well, yes, that's her," Dr. Lecter said.   "Was she a memorable student?"  

                Clarice chuckled and nodded.  "I'll say," she said.  "'Agent Stahling, how did you know Buffalo Bill was a tailor?  Agent Stahling, tell me about this case and that case and the other one.'  She was _into _this stuff.  Read every damn case file I had for class and wanted more.  I felt sorry for any serial killers in _her _town."

                "I see.  Unfortunately, she doesn't appear to distinguish between the retired killers and the active ones.  It is a copycat killer.  Not me.  He's rather close to my method, but it is not my work."  

                Clarice nodded.  She found herself believing him.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter did a great many things that she might not have approved of, but he did not lie.  

                "Well," she said, "I'll help if I can.  Maybe give her a phone call or something, get the file, get her off your trail.  Do you…do you know anything about the killer?"  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged.  It was far easier to talk about this than to wander the emotional minefields they had braved before. This was simply neutral emotionally.  

                "Based on what I know, I would suspect that the killer has some sort of medical training," he said.  "Although that could be mistaken.  He could simply be a skilled hunter, or even a butcher.  I suspect the killer is an older man.  A younger contemporary of mine.  Based on his knowledge of the city, he's native.   There have been previous murders; of that I have little doubt."  

                Clarice nodded.  "Does he know you're there?"  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head.  "If he did, he would have tried to contact me…or worse."  

                Clarice closed her eyes.  "I'll help you if I can," she said.  "I owe you.  I know that.  But…I've got so far to go I don't know what to do."  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged.   "Kill Rebecca DeGould," he said.  "Simple enough."  

                Clarice considered it.  Finally, she shook her head.  "Killing her is…too easy," she said.  "I want to _shame _her.  Put her in jail.  Make an example of her."  Her lips twisted.  "I tried to be nice to her," she added vehemently.  "I thought she'd suffered enough, and I could ease off and maybe we could peacefully coexist.  Besides, killing her won't put me back where I want to be.  Right now, the system thinks I'm an escaped felon.  I need to set that right."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  "As you see fit, Clarice," he said.  "But perhaps we should not discuss such things.  We've both made decisions, and now we must live with them.  We can fight our battles in the morning. As far as you and I go…all we have is tonight."  


	18. Women in Need

                _Author's note: Did Dr. Lecter and Clarice end their night in a, ahem,  special way?  Good question.  Maybe I'll answer it.  :D  For now, the two women in the GD's life…_

                The mansion in Watson's Bay stood as it always had, bravely looking out over the sea.  The woman living inside went to work and spent hours in an operating room, just as she always had.  When she was finished, she picked up her son from the babysitter's and took him home, just as she always had.  But now things were markedly different.  

                Michael was playing on the floor with his Duplo blocks.  He would build with them for hours, if allowed to.  High structures spanning into the air.  Whole cities of buildings.  Occasionally he would scatter his matchbox cars around them in order to bring his city to life.  That the scales didn't quite match meant little to him.  

                "Mummy," Michael asked, and glanced over at his mother with his strange maroon eyes.  

                Erin Lander smiled in some pain as she watched him build.   "What, honey?" she asked.  

                "Where's daddy?  He usually helps me build with my blocks."  Even at three, Michael Litton was already developing an Australian accent.  He studied the structure he was currently building as if it might offer him some answer.  

                Erin sighed.  What was she supposed to tell him?  That his father had gone gallivanting across the planet for the sake of a woman he hadn't seen in years?  That he might be captured, and that Michael might never see him again?  Meanwhile, there was that serial killer running around, and a detective besides.  That detective might try now, while he was away.  

                "Daddy went…to visit an old friend," she told him.  "He'll be back."  

                Michael tilted his head, looking oddly like a smaller version of his father.  "An old friend?" he asked.  "Why didn't we all go to see Daddy's mate?"  

                Hearing her son refer to Clarice Starling as Hannibal Lecter's mate made her clench her fists.  _She damn well **better **not be his mate, _she thought.  Then she stopped.  Michael meant it in the Australian sense.  His friend.  _Just _his friend.  

                That had damned well better be true.  

                "Daddy wanted to see his friend by himself," she explained.  "He'll be back.  And  I have to work.  I'm a doctor.  People need me here."  

                "Will he be back soon?" Michael's round face was the picture of innocence and curiosity.

                 Erin sighed and felt tears sting her eyes.  This whole thing was so _insane.  _He had just gotten on a plane and left, promising to return.  But there was so much that could go wrong.  He could be caught.  He could be detained at Australian immigration coming back.  Or, God forbid…he might _choose _not to come back.  

                No. He'd promised.  He wouldn't. 

                "I sure hope so, Michael," she said.  "I sure hope so."  

                She glanced out the window.  Her cars were parked in the driveway.  Cars, as in more than one.  He'd bought her a Jaguar convertible when they had moved into Sydney, despite her pleas that it really wasn't practical with a baby.  His answer had been simple:  he'd bought a Mercedes sedan that served to ferry the kid around in.  Yet still, Michael always liked a ride in the no-top.  Perhaps she'd take him out for a ride tomorrow.  Her morning was free.  

                Across the street, an elderly Ford sedan was parked on the side of the road.  Its hood was up in the universal signal for car trouble.  Erin eyed it nervously for a moment or two.  

                _Is that you, Detective Pierce? s_he wondered.  A lump tickled her throat.  What would happen if the detective burst in and took her to the station now, while he was gone?  She knew where that would lead.  Fingerprints would reveal her identity.  She'd be jailed pending extradition to the US.   Her son would be packed off to an orphanage somewhere.  Or maybe foster parents.  She didn't know how it was done in Australia.  

                Erin Lander had her own memories of orphanages and foster care.  She would sooner die than subject Michael to those dull and dirty institutions or those joyless groups of strangers who offered a sad substitute for your family.  She knew what _he_ would want; he would want her to stay put and not arouse suspicion.  He'd said he would only need a few days.  But her mother's instinct was strong, and the urge to simply grab up Michael and get out while she could.  

                _What if it **isn't **Detective Pierce?  _Erin found herself thinking.  No, she was getting paranoid.  Who _else _would it be?  All the same, she crossed to a closet and glanced at the alarm panel inside.  Lights flashed in sequence.  Green across the board.  Good.  She tapped out a code on the keypad.  A muted electronic chirp came from the panel and a light shifted from green to red.  No one would break in now, not without her knowing about it.  

                _And what do I do then?  _she wondered.  _I'm a serial killer's wife, I can't exactly call the police for help.  That detective would have me down to the station and fingerprint me in a minute. _

She wasn't willing to kill the detective.  He wanted to.  Maybe he was right; maybe her insistence that killing was wrong was ill suited to the situation.  It wouldn't take too long, not for him.  But she _hated _such things.  When you came down to it, she'd even tried to save Clarice Starling's life, when it was necessary.  

                The burglar alarm would have to do for now.  If she absolutely needed the police she would call them and hope for the best.  Erin Lander picked up her son and scooted him off to the tub for his bath and bedtime.  

                Across the way, the killer lowered his binoculars.  Interesting.  His meal's husband was nowhere to be seen.  His car wasn't in the driveway, either.  At first, the sight of the Mercedes _and _the Jaguar had thrown him off.  But he had been careful.  He knew that his prey had two cars; one was used as a baby-mobile.  The man drove a hardtop Jaguar.  That car was nowhere to be seen.  

                This was _excellent. _Far better than he could have ever hoped. All he had to do was take care of the detective, and his prey would be in his hands.  

…

                Paul DaSilva was watching TV when the knock at his door came. His apartment in Brooklyn was nothing fancy.  But he had his Barcalounger and he had his TV and he had the good old Giants on the tube.  He got up and trotted over to the door.  Just in case, he drew his 9mm and peeked out the door before answering.  

                The peephole in his door gave him a wide, fishy-eyed view of Clarice Starling standing outside his door.  He frowned.  What the hell? Clarice was in prison.  He'd been trying to get her out.  

                He unlocked the door carefully and opened it.  Clarice smiled nervously when she saw him.  He scanned her face and consulted his memory.  Yep, that was her.  He knew it.  A little thinner through the face than she had been, but that was her.  

                "Clarice?" he said.  

                "Paul," she said urgently.  "Can I…can I come in?"  

                "Sure," he said, and opened the door to admit her.  She glanced right and left and then dodged in the door quickly.  She wasn't armed and looked nervous.  

                "So I guess everything got straightened out," he said.  "You..um…you want some coffee?" 

                She shook her head.  "No," she said.  "Well hell's bells, I'll take the coffee.  Everything _didn't _get all straightened out.  Everything is still _majorly _fucked up.  Paul…I need your help."  

                The coffee mugs banged on the counter with a solid porcelain _thump _as he got them down.  His Mr. Coffee machine gurgled at him and emitted steam as he snapped it on.  He eyed her curiously.  

                "But you're out of prison," he pointed out.  

                Clarice Starling bit her lip and stared at him.  She looked vulnerable, he thought.  Vulnerable and needy.  It made him want to put his hands on her shoulders and tell her everything would be OK.  

                "I…I escaped," she whispered.  Her eyes scanned him and judged whether or not he would help her.  Paul's jaw dropped.  

                "You _escaped?"  _he said disbelievingly.    "How the hell did you do that?"  

                Clarice sat down on his couch and raised her hands to her face.  "Please don't ask me that," she whispered.  

                The coffee was ready momentarily, and Paul served Clarice a steaming fragrant mug.  She raised it to her lips and looked completely miserable.  As if she had just lost something so desperately dear to her.  

                "Paul, everything has gone wrong," she said.  "My best friend is still in prison.  The system thinks I'm a felon myself.  If I'm caught they'll send me back to prison.  Rebecca DeGould is gonna try and destroy me.  I…I don't know what to do.  I need help, Paul."  She looked up at him, her gaze exposed and helpless.  "Will you help me?"  

                Paul swallowed.  His duty was clear enough.  IF she was an escaped prisoner, it was his obligation to arrest her and bring her to jail.  They could deal with her through the courts.  So his duty always had been, and so it was clear.  

                Except Paul DaSilva knew better.  He knew the woman sitting on his couch and looking like she was about to cry was the FBI agent he had sent undercover into prison.  He had inquired as discreetly as he could about her after the official record showed that Clarice Starling had been extracted.  He'd gotten a bitchy email from a woman named Rebecca DeGould telling him to lay off and he was jeopardizing a _very _important case.  

                His dander was up.  He knew better.  Something wasn't right.  Best to hear Clarice out, let her see what she needed.  

                "Sure," he said.  "Look…we'll get this all straightened out."  He indicated the coffee mug.  "Drink that, it'll make you feel better." 

                She took a long draw from the mug and her eyes closed in pleasure.  Then she glanced down over at some manila folders on his coffee table. _TOLLMAN _was written along the tab of one.  _WASHINGTON _was labeled on the other one.   

                "What are those?" she asked eagerly.  

                Paul shrugged.  "Brittany Tollman's file," he said.  "And Kiera Washington's.  You asked me to get them.  I had a look."  

                Clarice picked up Brittany's folder and opened it.  Her eyes narrowed.  "What's in here?"  

                "Everything I could get," Paul answered gently.  "Her arrest record.  Her court papers."  He pronounced the word _cawt_, and she smiled.  He found he liked her smile.  "Why do you want to look in there?  Sounds like you got enough problems."  

                Clarice exhaled slowly.  "I got to know what I'm dealing with," she said.  Paul thought it was something else.  She needed something to get her mind off her problems.  Reading about the Tollman chick might do it.  

                So he let her read the file.  After ten minutes of fortifying herself with the coffee and reading the file, she glanced up at him.  Her lips twisted in distaste.  

                "I can't believe they sent her up for first-degree murder," she said.  

                Paul nodded.  He had read the file himself.  His eyes blinked like a camera shutter clicking and the contents came into his mind immediately.  It had been a useful gift in his police career.  

                "Pretty raw deal," he agreed. 

                "_Look _at this," Clarice vowed.  "The gun they found her with was loaded with _blanks.  _She couldn't have shot anyone if she wanted to.  And her shoulder was dislocated when they found her.  And look at these bruises."  She took an old Polaroid out of the folder and waved it at Paul as if he was responsible.  

                Paul shrugged.  "Not my department, Starling," he said.  "And not yours, either.  You got enough problems."  

                Clarice appeared not to have heard.  "Goddam it," she said desultorily, staring into the corner.  "No _wonder _she took DeGould's offer.  Goddam her.  How the hell does she figure this out?"  

                Paul smiled and squatted in front of Clarice.  He put his blocky hands on either side of her face.  

                "Look," Paul said.  "Listen…I ain't gonna run you in.  I know something's up here.  But you gotta focus on _you _for right now.  Now listen.  I'm off today.  It's nine now.  If we beat feet we can be in DC in three and a half hours.  Maybe three, if we step on it.  I got _my _badge.  Let's get you down there now and see what we can find.  I talked to some guy who might be willing to help you."  

                A bolt of hope crossed her face.  He nodded.  All she'd needed was a little push to get her up and running.  Sometimes people needed that sort of thing.  

                "Okay," she said breathlessly.  

                "I'll miss my Giants game, but that's OK," he said.  

                "I'll buy you tickets on the fifty-yard line when this is over," she promised.  

                Paul chuckled.  "Only if you come wit' me," he said, an eyebrow cocked.  "Look, there's pop tarts and such in the kitchen.  Let me shower and get my suit on and all.  How's that?  You need a shower or something?"  

                She shook her head.  "I'm fine," she said.  "I…showered last night."   Then she smiled saucily.  Paul DaSilva thought something was odd.  

                Paul showered quickly and dressed.  He chose a plain blue suit; he'd need to look like your average FBI agent.  A neat white shirt and a brilliant red tie completed his ensemble  After getting his weapon holstered and his tie knotted neatly around his neck, he was satisfied.  

                 It was only when he came out that he realized Clarice was dressed in a nice pants suit.  Where had she gotten that? Wasn't like there was a freakin' Saks in the prison.  She hadn't wanted to tell him how she escaped.  And frankly, it didn't matter.  

                So he brought her down to his car.  It was a quick trip to Jersey.  The Jersey Turnpike would take them all the way down to I-295, and from there it would be quick.  He had his FBI identification, so he felt comparatively little guilt in slamming the pedal to the medal.  Even the Jersey state boys were pretty good about helping out a fellow cop.  

                On the way, he gave her his cell phone and dialed a number for her.  He watched her face as she waited for the phone to pick up.  She'd be happy.  Paul DaSilva had done his homework.  Clarice Starling was in a bad situation, but she was not entirely without allies.  

                Clarice listened carefully to the phone, waiting for the electronic burr to resolve into a human voice.  

                "Pearsall," a male voice said gruffly.  

                "Clint!  It's Clarice Starling.  How are you?" she asked.  

                Pearsall seemed taken aback.  "Clarice?  Clarice Starling?  Is this a joke?"  

                "No," Clarice said in a short whisper.  "God, no.  I wish it was.  Things have been so messed up.  DeGould screwed me on the prison project.  But DaSilva's helping me.  I need help, Clint."  

                There was a long pause.  "You bet you do," Clint Pearsall said.  "Your duplex burned down and they found two bodies in it. According to FBI records…both you and Ardelia are dead."  


	19. Painful Victories

__

The apartment building in suburban Parramatta was quiet as night fell.  Traffic was light.  It was far from the mansion on the water in Watson's Bay in which the Littons lived, but it was still a good place.  And it was here, in a neat two-bedroom apartment that Detective Isabelle Pierce lived.  

                A pot of pasta was sitting on the stove, the water beginning to boil into white foam.  On the next burner, a pan of tomato sauce was simmering.  The detective herself sat at her computer not far from the stove.  She could keep an eye on it from here.  

                She was perusing the latest reports from the pathologist on the Cannibal Killer's latest victim.  The coroner's notes didn't quite match her recollection of the body, and she thought that odd.  Still, minor details.  

                The fact that the killer had targeted her made her nervous.  She'd learned to handle herself.  She'd had to do it from a young age; with two older brothers, she'd learned to fight early.  According to the labs, the substance left in her car was indeed haggis.  Haggis made from the latest victim, but haggis nonetheless.  Bits of onion and oatmeal had been found in the victim's body cavity; bits of the victim found in the Tupperware container of chopped-up…meat.   The detective found the weight of her Browning on her hip comforting.  

                Dr. Litton had been questioned at the scene and then released.  She claimed to have no knowledge of the man going over her car or why he might do it.  On that, the detective thought she was telling the truth.  What was odder was that her husband seemed to have departed the area.  Perhaps the country.  Dr. Litton had said he was in Brisbane visiting family.  

                Detective Pierce found herself itching to bring Dr. Litton down to the station for fingerprints.  She just knew what they would turn up.  But the doctor's political connections were enough to keep her at bay.  

                Still, it was odd.  Dr. Hannibal Lecter had never made haggis out of his victims.  According to the VICAP file on him, he was Lithuanian in origin, not Scottish.  There was precious little reason for him to make a traditional Scottish dish.  

                His wife looked Irish, though.   Perhaps there was some Scots in the mix.  Detective Pierce rolled her eyes; it was hard to envision the pleasant surgeon as asking her husband to do that.  _Dear, I chopped out his stomach and liver.  Would you be a sweetheart and pop off to Woolworth's for onions and oatmeal?  We can have a real traditional Scots meal.  _

Then again, she had to allow, Elaine Litton _was _a surgeon.  She cut people open and mucked about in their insides all the time.  She was beginning to have her doubts, though.  This whole thing was…odd.  

                Where was Hamilton Litton?  It couldn't be _that _hard to ring up the police in Brisbane and find out if he was there.  Another call to Immigrations could tell her if he had left the country.  Then again, if he _was _Hannibal Lecter, he would likely have several excellent-quality passports.  He would have left the country with a passport not related at all to Hamilton Litton and would re-enter with another one.   

                Hmm.  She tapped a pen against her teeth and stared at the monitor thoughtfully.  

                A knock came at the door.  She got up and trotted over to the door, checking through the peephole.  It was a man in a suit.  His face was turned away from the tiny view the peephole offered.  Carefully, Detective Pierce opened the door, leaving the chain on just in case.  

                "Hello," she said cautiously.  "Can I help you?"  

                The figure slammed against the door with amazing strength.  The bracket holding the chain ripped off.  The door itself, now freed from its mooring, slammed into Isabelle Pierce and knocked her into the wall.   Her breath wheezed from her in an agonized gust.  

                The figure entered the apartment, slamming the door behind him.  Above the calm suit was a ski mask and sunglasses.  It made the figure look inhuman.  

_What the hell? _Isabelle Pierce thought. 

The figure reached into its trenchcoat and withdrew a wicked, long-bladed knife. A gloved hand held it high overhead.  Then it moved in and the knife came down.    

                The first strike sank the knife into her shoulder.  There was a cold, nauseating pressure, like a thumb over an eye. Then she realized the blade was _in _her left shoulder.   Then it began to hurt mightily.  She felt and heard the blade scrape against her collarbone as it withdrew and felt lightheaded.  All this had happened in only the space of a few seconds?  It hardly seemed so, but so it was.  

                But Isabelle Pierce was no victim.  She groped for the pistol strapped to her waist and drew it.  The figure stabbed her a second time.  She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain and fighting the dizziness as best she could.  The Browning seemed very heavy to raise and deploy.  

                _I will **not **be stabbed to death in my own apartment, _she thought.  _I'll take you with me, whoever you are.  _

The blade came down a third time.  She could not bring her left arm up to defend herself; her right was occupied with the pistol.  The blade skated along her ribs and punched in.  Black flowers burst across her vision.  But then the heavy metal-punching-through-cardboard sound of the pistol echoed twice in her ears, and she heard a cry.  When her vision returned, she could see a splotch of dark red blood darkening the figure's trenchcoat.  And darkening _rapidly.  _Savage pleasure filled her at that sight.  

                The figure stepped back and opened its coat.  Isabelle's hand shook as she strove to raise the pistol.  She'd aimed center-of-mass, just as she had been taught.  Now she intended to aim the muzzle directly at the figure's ski-masked head.  The trenchcoat hanging open looked like scabrous black wings.  The lower right quadrant of the figure's white shirt was steadily turning red with blood.  

                _I got **you**, _Isabelle Pierce thought.  

                But then the figure turned and ran, wing tips rattling on the wooden floor.  Before she knew it, the door was slammed shut.  She heard thundering on the stairs, but she could not give chase.  Isabelle took a moment of covering the door to ensure that the assassin would not return.  Then she saw the blood on her own shirt and stood shakily.  

                Surprisingly, her legs carried her over to the phone just as they always had.  She had to put the gun down to pick up her phone, and she didn't like that one bit.  Still, the figure had been badly hurt.  If Hamilton Litton did not return, or if he was cared for by his wife at home for a bit, she would know why.  

                But for now she needed help.  She pulled the phone off the hook and dialed zero three times.  

                "Emergency Services," a voice said cheerily in her ear.  "What is your emergency?"  

                "I need an ambulance," Isabelle Pierce said through dry lips.  "I've been stabbed."  

                There was so much more she wanted to say.  _The bastard's hurt and fleeing.  Arrest Elaine Litton.  Hannibal Lecter did this.  _But her body wouldn't take much more.  The dizziness was returning and she couldn't fight it this time.    

                "Right," the voice said crisply.  "I see you're at 311 Ruse Drive in Parramatta?"  

                "Yes," Isabelle groaned.   "Apartment…121."  

                "Apartment 121, got it.  The ambulance is on its way.  Hold on."   

                Isabelle Pierce lay back on her floor.  Black spots danced at the corner of her vision.  Was it too late?  She couldn't tell.  She could barely raise her head to examine her wounds.  

                As the darkness closed in, she could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

                …

                Clarice's street was just as it had always been.  A quiet, blue-collar neighborhood in which kids played and adults came home after a hard day of work.  It was safe there; crime was pretty much unknown.  But her duplex….her _home.  _She sat on the sidewalk and stared.  

                Things had moved along decently.  Paul had brought her down to Quantico.  They'd been very careful to avoid Behavioral Sciences.  For now, that was enemy territory.  A hot burst of anger had overtaken Clarice when she read that Rebecca DeGould was temporarily running Behavioral Sciences while she was on leave.  

                She could have tried to fire DeGould right off, but it wasn't time.  Her position was tenuous and weak.  A fingerprint check would indicate that she was Brittany Tollman, a convicted murderess.  She needed to wait before she struck back at DeGould.  Going after her now would simply earn her a trip back to Bedford Hills in handcuffs.  

                She'd laid down the story for Pearsall.  Thank God for him.  He'd agreed to help her out quietly, issuing her a temporary FBI ID in another name.  He'd also made arrangement with the New York field office to send Paul down here on a TDY case.  He'd made up some fish story for them – something about Mob ties in Washington, DC.  It was necessary; the DeGoulds were powerful in New York, and the New York field office might have a leak to them.  Clarice found it sad.  The very organization she had sworn to serve had to be treated as an enemy.  

                Pearsall had promised to do what he could for Ardelia.  The problem was that Clarice was free and Ardelia was not.  It wasn't possible to get Ardelia out of prison without tipping their hand to DeGould.  After all, according to the system, Ardelia Mapp was dead in a house fire; the woman in a Florida prison was Kiera Washington.   That had stabbed Clarice deeply.  She'd kept her spirits up as she told him the story.  But when he told her Ardelia would have to stay put for the time being, she had broken down and cried.   

                But Clarice had a weapon and an ID.  It was a tenuous grasp on her old life, but a grasp it was.  She'd wanted to see the house and see how bad the damage was.  Pearsall had warned her soberly that it was bad…but she'd never expected _this.  _

The roof was blackened and a large section had collapsed in.  The walls were still standing, but the one wall leaned in as if exhausted.  Peeking in the windows indicated…nothing.  Sections of the floor were missing, caved into the basement.  The home in which Clarice had lived since adulthood was…gone.  Replacing it were only charred black cinders.  A few blackened lumps were all that remained of the furniture.  

                Going around to her bedroom in the back was no better.  Her things were all charred and burnt.  There were holes in the wall that she could see in her bedroom window, where her stash of bullets had gone off with the heat.  Ardelia's side of the duplex had gotten the same treatment.  On the kitchen wall she could see the blackened, twisted picture frame that had once held her grandmother's insurance policy.  

                Clarice stared at her wrecked duplex and felt tears of anger and pain rise to her face.  Oh, DeGould would _pay _for this.  She would pay for this and everything else she had done.  She would pay and pay and pay.  Clarice would see to it.  

                But before she could begin to collect on that debt, she had to get back what she could.  She couldn't get her duplex back or her things; the flames had consumed them.  Besides, they were just _things.  _She could live without them.  What she needed was Ardelia.  

                Clarice Starling could think tactically, despite what some people had thought of her.  Her determination to see justice done did not blind her to the fact that sometimes you had to kick the bad guy's ass in order to get there.  

                She turned back to Paul and stared at him with eyes that were grieving but dry.  

                "Good _God," _Clarice said.  Her voice was dry and gritty.  "What in God's name did I ever do to make this bitch hate me so goddam much?"  

                Paul shrugged uncomfortably.  "I…I don't know."  

                "Why?"  Clarice persisted.  Part of her knew that Paul could not give her an answer.  He was a good guy, and he was trying to help her.  And she needed that so very badly.  But another part of her had to know.  Had to grieve.  What had she done to deserve this?  Why was Rebecca DeGould so determined to see her suffer?  

                Paul DaSilva was a bluff-looking tough guy.  On seeing him one would have thought he was a brute.  He was tall and blocky and muscular.  When he spoke, it was surprising how calm and sensitive his voice was.  

                "Clarice," he said, "I don't know why this happened.  I don't know what this DeGould woman has against you.  But for right now, let's concentrate on setting as much of it right as we can.  Your house burned down.  That's awful.  But you can buy a new house.  Now look.  Let's try and put things aside, as much as we can.  We have to get your name back and we have to get your friend Ardelia out of prison."  

                The mention of Ardelia reminded her anew that Ardelia was suffering for no other reason than that she was Clarice's friend.  But it also served to bring her back to earth.  She could not sit here and cry, not with Ardelia locked away in a solitary-confinement cell.  She lowered her head and emitted one quick sob, then looked up at him and nodded.  

                "Okay," she husked.  "You're right.  I'm sorry, Paul.  It's just…,"  Privately she thanked God for him.  He was her rock.  She could lean on him for strength when she needed it.  

                "It's OK," he said soberly.  "Let's go pick up the fake Clarice and Ardelia, so we can help the real ones."  

                Clarice sighed.  "They could be anywhere," she said.  "DeGould would have them tucked away somewhere."  

                Paul nodded.  His dark eyes fixed hers.  "Yup," he said.  "But let's face it.  She knows she needs them.  She's got them tucked away, but wherever it is, it's somewhere she can keep an eye on them."  He reached into his pocket and removed a slip of paper.  

                "Pearsall gave me DeGould's home address from Central Records.  I say we go check it out."  She grinned despite herself at how Pearsall's name came out in his Brooklyn accent.  "Betcha she's got her girls stashed away in her place, or a place nearby.  Somewhere she can keep track of them."  

                Clarice smiled sadly.  "You make a pretty good profiler," she offered.  

                Paul smiled and waved his hand dismissively.  "Profiler, bah.  We rolled up a coke network in the city a couple months ago.  The _muchacho _in charge of the operation had a couple witnesses he didn't want to flip on us.  Same deal.  He had 'em living in his house under armed guard."  

                The idea of comparing Rebecca DeGould to a Columbian drug dealer was faintly amusing.  She liked it; it reminded her what Rebecca DeGould was.  A criminal.   She accompanied him to the car. 

                "What if they don't talk?" Clarice asked.  "I mean…they just go back to prison if they do.  Not much incentive for them to help us."  

                Paul shrugged.  "For now, that don't matter too much," he said.  "Cross that bridge when we come to it.  Whoever gets those girls is the one who's probably gonna win."  His eyes gleamed.  "I like winning.   How about you?"  

                Clarice thought about everything she had lost.  Her name.  Her freedom, for a month.  Her home.  Her best friend.  She clamped her hands into fists.  .  

                "I've lost so much," she said.  Then her face hardened.  "Thanks for being there for me, Paul.  It means a lot to me.  A lot more than I can say right now.  Now…let's go win."  


	20. Evasion

                _Author's note: Here we are, an update. I know you're all anxious to know what happens to our Aussie detective, and we'll get there.  But this turned out long enough to be its own chapter, so here we go.  _

                Clarice Starling tensed as the car turned into the condominium complex.  It was here that Rebecca DeGould lived.  Enemy territory.  Just as Behavioral Science was, now.  It galled her.  

                With her duplex burned down, she knew that Brittany and Kiera had to be living somewhere.  She agreed with Paul that it would be somewhere that DeGould could keep an eye on them.  DeGould might be ruthless and evil, but she wasn't stupid.  With Clarice free, she would keep her pawns close to her.   

                But what if she wasn't keeping them in her condo?  That nagged at Clarice.  Paul was helping her and so was Pearsall.  They were taking a hell of a risk, too.  According to the system, Clarice was a fugitive.  An escaped felon.  Both Paul and Pearsall were FBI agents; their job was officially to arrest her and return her to New York State.  Thank God they hadn't done that.  But there _were _limits to what she could ask.  They couldn't do a lot of poking around.  If DeGould knew that Clarice was here, and looking, she would simply pack them off to…God only knew where.  

                And what was she supposed to do with them when she caught them?  _If _she caught them?  All they had to do was hang tight for a couple of days.  The system was on their side, not Clarice's.  Try as she might, Clarice could not fathom either woman agreeing to go back to prison for the sake of the woman she had switched with.  

                But she had to do _something.  _She had to figure something out.  And that started with getting her hands on them.  Get 'em in federal custody, that was the ticket.  Once they actually had the girls in custody they'd be in good shape to work on loosening their lips.  There had to be _something _Clarice could offer them to flip on DeGould.  

                Get them first.  That was what mattered.   Clarice forced herself to ignore the voices in the back of her head asking _what are you going to do with them once you've got them? _

                DeGould's condominium was like every other one in the development.  That struck her as somehow odd.  She knew that evil had its banal side – even serial killers took showers and did their laundry.  Still, to see Rebecca DeGould's home was somehow odd.  A reminder that she was, after all, human.  

                _So am I, and I don't know what her damn beef is with me, _she thought.  

                There was no car parked in front of DeGould's unit.  If the girls were here, they had no car.  That was probably for the best.  Clarice felt a wire of nervousness wrap itself around her gut once, then twice.  She alighted from the car and watched Paul.  He smiled nervously at her and then walked up to the door.  Clarice drew her own weapon and held it along her thigh.  Paul did not draw his immediately.  

                "Okay," Paul said, and knocked on the door.  

                Nothing happened for a moment or two.  Clarice tensed.  

                Then a face appeared at the window next to the door.  It was Brittany.  She glanced out at Paul with a look of puzzlement.  Then her gaze shifted to Clarice.  Immediately, all the color drained out of her face.  Terror and dread wrote themselves across her features.  

                "Brittany, open the door," Clarice said.  

                But Brittany did not comply.  The curtain slammed shut and she heard a high-pitched scream from inside.  Clarice cursed and kicked the door hard.  It was steel, and there was a deadbolt on it.  If they'd had an 'Avon calling' round, they could have opened it.  But they didn't, and she wasn't going to sit here and shoot at the door like a goddam duck in a shooting gallery.  

                "Goddam it," she said.  "She's gonna get away."  

                They heard a door slam open on the other side of the condo.  Immediately, Clarice turned around.  DeGould's condo was in the middle of a row of them all sitting together.  Without needing to be told, she ran down to the end and through.  

                The condos all surrounded a green, verdant field.  In the middle of the field were two running figures.  Clarice grinned hard and pursued.  Her legs were strong and she was determined.  She reholstered her weapon so that she didn't shoot one of them by accident.  

                Paul DaSilva passed her, as he had much longer legs.  Ahead of them, Kiera Washington was slightly in front of Brittany.  She ran past the field and then passed the condominiums on the other side.  Ahead was a chain-link fence.  Kiera set about scaling it and then dropped over the other side.  

                Brittany Tollman began scaling the fence herself.  Paul DaSilva charged harder and grabbed her as she was climbing.   He pulled her down as gently as he could.  He wasn't able to be terribly gentle.  She fought him, gripping the chain linking desperately and kicking at him with her sneakered feet.  A frenzied scream arose from the struggling girl.

  Once Clarice had caught up to him a few seconds later, they were able to detach her from the fence and get her down.  It was harder than Clarice thought; she had to pry Brittany's fingers one by one off the fence while Paul held the struggling girl around the ribcage. But finally, she was off.  

Oddly, she didn't try to attack them. Paul pulled out his cuffs.  Between the two of them, they were able to pin down the smaller woman and get the cuffs on her.  Once they had her down, she quit struggling and started to sob pathetically.  

                On the other side of the fence, Kiera Washington stood and watched helplessly.  Her face had gone gray, struck with sympathetic pain and shame.  Brittany's head popped up as Clarice was trying to cuff her.  For a moment, the two prisoners stared at each other wordlessly.    

                "_Kiera, run!_" Brittany screamed.  _"Just run!  Get out of here!"  _

Clarice glanced up and at the black woman on the other side of the fence.  Christ, she was young.  They both were.  

                "Kiera, wait there," she said firmly.  "The other agents will be here any minute."  

_                "Don't listen to her, haul ass while you can!"  _Brittany shrieked.  Clarice cursed as the black girl began to turn and run.  She rose from where Brittany was pinned down and began to climb the fence herself.  Paul was an FBI agent who had arrested Mafiosi and drug dealers in his time; he ought to be able to handle a single handcuffed woman.  

                She scaled the fence and glanced left and right.  There was nothing to be seen.  Just a pleasant, bucolic bit of suburbia.  There was a row of trees a hundred yards the other way, and she ran over that way. No Kiera there.  But there were lots of places to hide in there.  Finding her would be damn near impossible for one agent.  

                _Goddam it, _she thought meanly.  But one catch was better than nothing.  Of course, now she had to figure out how to get Brittany talking.  She'd need her to own up to the scheme, get Clarice straightened out, and find out how to get Ardelia sprung.  How Clarice was going to accomplish this she had no idea.  All she knew was that she had to.  

                Clarice heard footsteps echoing off metal from somewhere far away.  She ran back and forth in the small patch of woods.  Metal?  Where the hell was that coming from?  The patch of woods served to divide the one condo complex from the next one over.  There was a slight ravine in between the two of them.  Clarice stepped carefully down one side of the ravine.  It was steep.  Sweat gleamed on her forehead.  She could feel the back of her blouse sticking to her skin.

                Then she saw it.  A large metal culvert stuck out of the ground, gurgling a small stream of water.  She had to step carefully down the steep ravine in order to look inside.  Sure enough, there was a silhouette inside the culvert, heading for the tiny dot of light at the far end.  

                Clarice stuck her head into the culvert and grimaced.  It smelled nasty.  She could hear the metallic echoes of Kiera's feet striking the surface.  Her shoes got wet as she climbed in.  The culvert was small, and she had to hunch over.  

                "Kiera!" she shouted.  "Kiera, freeze!  This is the FBI.   You're under arrest."  

                The figure did not stop.  Clarice raised her pistol and then put it back in her holster.  For one thing, she didn't like it; it was your standard FBI-issue six-shot .38.  Damn thing was dinky when you came down to it; you could hit a suspect six times and they didn't always go down.  For another, the bullet might ricochet off the walls of the culvert.  Shooting a suspect now would get her in a boatload of trouble. 

                So she closed her mind and her nose and headed into the musty pipe. Her own feet echoed back metallic clangs, counterpointing the duller, far-away ones coming from Kiera.  Dirty water splashed on her feet and legs as she ran.  Cobwebs brushed her face as she ran.  She grimaced and pressed on.  The culvert stank of metal and water and her own fear.  

                Ahead, Kiera gained the exit to the pipe and ran out into the sunshine.  Clarice swore.  The black girl turned and did something to the pipe.  Clarice was about forty feet from the exit herself.  She stumbled and landed on her hands.  Grubby water splashed on her face and she scowled.  

                A large metal grille clashed down atop the pipe, shutting Clarice in as efficiently as a cell door.  Her eyes widened when she saw it.  _Goddam it, she boobytrapped the  fucking pipe, _Clarice thought.  That was probably DeGould; she lived here and would've seen the pipe.  Kiera ran up the incline and disappeared.  

                Clarice reached the edge of the pipe and threw herself against the grille.  Even before she got close to it, she knew it was too heavy to open.  Slamming against it with all her force only moved it a few inches, swinging on a top hinge as if it was a doggie-door.  But this doggie-door must've weighed a couple hundred pounds if anything.  

                She tried again, grimacing and baring her teeth.  The grille would not move more an inch or two.  Her feet slipped against the scummy walls of the pipe.  She tried a third time and then stood, her head down, her hands on the bars of the grille like a prisoner.  

                Kiera had gotten away.   

                "Fuck," Clarice muttered morosely.  She heard an engine start.  Was that Kiera?  Made perfect sense; DeGould could just park a car for them in the _next _condo complex over, where nobody would've looked.  Or maybe it wasn't.  Maybe Kiera was running away somewhere else.   She'd never be able to find out.  Not without a goddam power winch. 

                But there wasn't much she could do here, so she headed out the other way.  No use sitting in the goddam culvert with wastewater getting her feet wet.  She cursed again and emerged from the culvert, climbing up the ravine and scaling the fence to return to Paul.  Maybe he had something.  

                Paul stood there, waiting for her.  Clarice scowled at him and shook her head, indicating her failure.  She glanced down at Brittany, who knelt handcuffed on the ground and watched Clarice as a crippled mouse might view a cat.  

                "I didn't get her," Clarice said bitterly.  "She got away."  

                Paul shrugged.  "That sucks," he said in commiseration.  

                Brittany let out a shuddering sigh of relief.  Her lips formed the words _Thank God.  _She did not voice that opinion, perhaps not wanting to anger her captors.   Her eyes closed and then opened again, watching Clarice carefully.  From the look on her face, Clarice thought, she seemed to fully expect Clarice – or perhaps Paul – to fire two bullets in the back of her head.  Clarice crossed her arms and observed the young prisoner coolly.  

                "Well," Clarice said briskly.  "Kiera got away, and so it's just you.  You're in a shitload of trouble, Brittany.  It's just a question of whether or not you help yourself out."  

                Brittany's face seemed to be the color of ivory.  A slightly yellowish white, not at all healthy.  She nodded and swallowed once.  

                "I know," she said in a shaking and tiny voice.  

                Clarice walked a few steps forward, her mouth quirking.  She let out a measured hiss of air.  

                "C'mon," she said.  "Get up."  She gestured to the house with her chin.  

                She felt the muscles of Brittany's arms tense when she bent down to take her arm.  Brittany glanced away from her and did not move.  When she spoke, her voice was halting and frightened.  

                "If you're gonna kill me," she said, "just do it here.  No sense staining the carpet."  

                The statement was so bizarre that at first Clarice did not know what to say.  DeGould had done this before, once, with Erin Lander.  _How the hell does she do this?  _Clarice wondered.  _How the hell does she convince people I'm some sort of murdering psychopath?  _

"I'm not gonna kill you," Clarice said disbelievingly.  "Now c'mon."  

                Brittany looked at her doubtfully, but she let Clarice help her to her feet and moved.   Obediently, she entered the condo and sat down in the chair Clarice steered her to.  Clarice sat down across from her.  

                "You all right?" she asked.  

                Brittany shrugged.  

                Clarice tried to look sympathetic.  It wasn't easy; she'd never been good at the whole interrogation spiel.  It was her usual preference to try and simply lay it out.  

                "Well," Clarice said, "looks like you're in a lot of trouble.  Maybe I could help you out.  First off you can tell me what you were doing here in Rebecca DeGould's condominium."  

                Brittany looked down at the carpet for a moment, then back at Clarice.  Without a word, she shook her head.  

                "We broke in," Brittany said.  

                This was what Clarice had been afraid of.  Brittany would have to go back to prison to serve out her sentence.  Clarice might have been able to keep more charges off her head, but she couldn't change that.  From Brittany's point of view, there was little Clarice could do for her.  Even if she managed to get Brittany off scott-free for anything she'd done since she was free, she couldn't help the sentence that had already been imposed, and she doubted she could keep New York State from filing escape charges.  For a twenty-three-year-old who'd already been in prison for five years, the twenty years left on her sentence combined with whatever escape charges would bring would seem an eternity.  

                If Brittany kept her yap shut, there wasn't too much more Clarice could do _to _her.  If she talked, there wasn't really that much Clarice could do _for _her.  Given those choices, Brittany might well decide to simply take her lumps.  After all, she'd get zero respect in prison if she snitched.  

                Now Clarice had to find out if Brittany _knew _that.  It seemed she did.  

                "Bullshit," Clarice said easily.  "She helped you.  I know that."  

                Brittany shook her head.  "We broke in," she repeated.  

                Clarice leaned forward and put her hand on the other woman's arm.  "Why protect her?  She's not going to help you, you know," she said.  "You know what happens to those who fail Rebecca DeGould."  

                "You won't either," Brittany said tonelessly.  "You forget, Starling…I've been through this before."  She shook her head bitterly.  "I spose you're gonna hit me for saying this…but you're just a flunky cop.  You got no power.  I know, I know, you'll talk to the DA.  You'll help me.  Except you _won't, _and you _can't.  _You just want me to give up what I know."  She tensed, clearly expecting Clarice was going to smack her one.  "Forget it.  All I wanted was a second chance.  I guess I don't get it.  But if I'm going back, I'm not giving you Kiera.  Sorry."  

                This was the worst thing Clarice could have expected.  She needed time.  Time to cajole, time to develop rapport.  She needed someone who was good at interrogation.  Maybe Paul was.  She glanced up at him wordlessly.  

                On cue, Paul walked around to stand in front of Brittany, and immediately Clarice realized the problem.  Paul DaSilva was a nice guy and a good guy.  But he was also a _big _guy, and towering over the handcuffed woman made him look threatening.  Brittany was _expecting _threats.  From what it seemed, she expected Clarice to start in on all sorts of horrible things.  

                "Look, kid," Paul started.  "We can be fair to you, you know."  

                Brittany shook her head.  "No, you can't," she said softly. "Are you from New York?  You sound it."  

                She sounded Southern herself, Clarice thought confusedly.  Was that a way in?  Nah, she didn't sound like home.  She sounded a lot more Deep South than Clarice's own drawl.  

                "Born and raised Brooklyn boy," Paul said.  

                "Then you know damn well you can't do anything for me," Brittany said softly.  "I been down five years.  Do the math."  

                Clarice wasn't sure what she was talking about, but she'd ask him later.  

                "Brittany," she said.  "Listen, you know, my friend is in a prison cell she doesn't deserve to be in.  If you helped me out, I'd help you out.  I mean…there's got to be _something."  _

Brittany sighed.  "I told you before," she said.  "You can't, and you won't.  I know how it goes."  

                It was hard to be understanding.  Thinking of Ardelia in that cell made her want to grab the recalcitrant convict and shake her until she coughed up everything.  But she couldn't do that.  It wouldn't get her what she wanted.  

                "Why do you say that?" Clarice asked.  "Look, I don't know what DeGould told you about me, but I'm not this monster."  

                Brittany shook her head.  "No," she said.  "You're a _cop."  _From the helpless venom in her voice, it seemed she considered cops only a step or two above pond scum.  "There's people like you…and then there's people like me.  The system's set up for people like you.  It's set up to screw people like me.  Sorry about your friend and all, but face it, Starling, you've got a badge.  You'll get her out.  People like you always get what they want, and if they have to walk all over people like me to get it, well, that's fine."  

                Clarice wondered for a moment how Brittany could _possibly _think that, after what she had just been through.  But she sensed that arguing wasn't going to get her anywhere.  She decided to let Brittany finish.  

                "Your friend will get out.  And that's what you want, and to hell with me, right?  All I have to do is give up Kiera, and you'll…what.  Drop a good word?  Yeah, like that'll do _anything.  _I know how the game is played.  I give you what you want and you give me a load of hot air and send me back to prison.  Kiera got away and I wish her the best and I hope you never catch her.  Don't give me a lot of talk about how you'll help me because you _won't.   _Do your worst, Starling.  You will anyway."  

                Clarice opened her mouth and felt no words come.  What the hell did she do now?  She might point out that Brittany would think differently when she was forty-three, but suggesting that to a twenty-three-year-old was crazy.  

                Brittany let out a sigh.   Then she seemed to ponder something.   "I'll tell you what, though," she said.  "I got something you _do _want.  I want to go to the bathroom.  Let me go and I'll give you something you do need."  

                "Like what?" Clarice asked.  

                "Like your fingerprint card," Brittany said.  

                Clarice's eyes bulged.  She put both hands on Brittany's upper arms.  "What?"

                "Yup," Brittany said.  "Got put in some papers of mine by accident.  Your fingerprint card.  From when you first joined the FBI."   

                "Tell me where," Clarice said instantly.  That was something she needed desperately.    

                Brittany shook her head.  "I want these handcuffs off," she said.  "I want to go to the bathroom on my own.  With the door closed.  It'll be the last time I get to do that for a long time.  Let me do that and have a few minutes to myself and I'll tell you where it is."  

                Clarice pondered for a second.  "Fine," she said.  "Let me just check the bathroom first."  

                Brittany rolled her eyes.  

                "Well," Clarice said, "yes or no?"  

                Brittany gave her a hard look.  "You tell me," she said.  

                Clarice wasn't going to give something like _that _up, and if all the kid wanted was a trip to the bathroom, that was fine.  She took Brittany's arm and walked her upstairs to the bathroom.  A quick check assured Clarice that there was no hope of her prisoner escaping.  There was no window.  To remove the other girl's restraints took only a moment.  Calmly, Clarice gestured to the bathroom.  If that was what Brittany wanted, that was fine.  Seemed like such a petty little thing. 

                Once Brittany was closed in the bathroom, Clarice gestured for Paul.  He came halfway up the stairs.  Clarice headed down a few steps before turning so she could keep an eye on the closed bathroom door.  

                "Paul, this isn't working," she said.  "I need something we can give her.  Something that'll make her talk."  

                Paul shrugged.  "It's been more than a year since her sentence," he said.  "Nothing you can do."  

                "There's got to be _something,_" Clarice said.  

                Paul gave her a helpless look.  "Clarice…the law's the law."  

                "Paul," Clarice answered back, "if I don't think of _something, _she's going to keep her yap shut, and no matter how many years we pile on her head, it won't matter.  Because she thinks we're going to do itanyway.  Scaring her isn't going to work."  

                "For now she's in federal custody," Paul said.  "Throw her in a cell.  We've got time."  

                "Yeah," Clarice said, "but we can't keep that up forever.  DeGould will be looking for her.  She'll try to get her back to New York.  If she goes back to New York DOC then we're finished.  And then God only knows how I get Ardelia out of this mess."  

                Paul pondered.  "Is there a fingerprint card for her?"  

                Clarice shrugged.  "I don't know," she said.  "Maybe.  Brittany would know.  If so, then maybe.  But if it's just me, then we're back to square one."  

                They stared at each other helplessly.  They knew what the next step was but didn't know how to get there.  Brittany had no reason to talk.  Threats wouldn't work.  Clarice was lost as to what to do next.  And they had to get the hell out of here.  If DeGould found them here, things would get very ugly real fast.    

                So she let her prisoner have ten minutes or so to compose herself.  Then she knocked on the door.  

                "C'mon, Brittany," she urged.  "C'mon out now."  

                There was no answer except for the blank sound of running water.  

                "Brittany?" Clarice said, and banged on the door again.  

                No human voice replied.  

                "Open the goddam door, Brittany," Clarice said.  A cold finger touched the back of her neck.  "C'mon, now, there's no point in this.  C'mon out."  

                As if mocking her, Brittany did not reply.  

                Clarice tried to open the door.  It was locked.  She threw her weight against it to no avail.  It was of good quality and held.  Then Paul, realizing what was happening, came up to help her.  With that, the door soon collapsed in.  

                Clarice Starling stepped into the bathroom and gasped. It was Rebecca DeGould's bathroom.  A flowered shower curtain.  The toilet had a small blue rug and a matching seat cover.  There were clean towels hanging on the towel bar.  All very normal and bourgeois.  Then she saw what _wasn't _bourgeois or normal and stood horrified. 

                Brittany Tollman lay in the tub, her eyes staring blankly upwards.  On the edge of the tub lay a razor blade.  Its edge was marked with blood.  The shower was on, spraying warm water over Brittany's body.  Her sleeves were rolled up.  

                A clean line of red blood welled from Brittany's left arm, running from elbow to wrist.  The blood mixed with the water into a less vivid mix.  Her right arm was also slit similarly, but that slash trailed lazily back and forth and looked more ragged.  Blood gurgled in the drain.  The white shirt she wore was swiftly turning a washed-out red color.  Awful trails of crimson streaked her jeans.  

                On the bathroom wall, Brittany had written MANILA FOLDER DOWNSTAIRS ON COFFEE TABLE.  Clarice stared at the scarlet letters.  Her gorge rose, despite all the crime scenes she _had _seen.  There was something horrible in it:  even planning this, she'd kept her end of the bargain.  She'd written in her own blood.  The words under that Clarice found absurdly touching, even given the shit-hitting-the-fan situation. 

                ALL I WANTED WAS A SECOND CHANCE.  

                She knew what to do, but couldn't do it.  She meant to turn, to yell to Paul to call 911.  Jesus Christ, how long had this been going on?  How long did someone need to die from this?  Five minutes?  Ten? Was she dead already?  She'd meant it, too.  Those slashes were deep and vertical, exposing a big chunk of her arm.  Clarice thought of the psychology courses she'd taken.  _Slashing across the wrist is a cry for help, _one professor had told her.  _Slashing vertically – that's a real suicide bid._

                "Call an ambulance!" she told Paul.  He grabbed his cell phone. They'd have to explain being here, but for now that was the least of their problems.   Clarice grabbed a towel and tried fruitlessly to stanch the blood with it.  She couldn't; she needed two towels and four arms to be able to do this.  

                "Jesus fucking Christ," Clarice Starling said to herself.  "Brittany, what the fuck?" 

                Brittany stirred and tried to pull her arms back out of Clarice's grasp.  She could barely move; loss of blood had already made her weak.  How much had gone down the drain?  No way to tell.  But this couldn't happen.  She wouldn't let it.  She'd lost Kiera.  If she lost Brittany too, then she and Ardelia were equally lost.  

                  Clarice tightened down the towel and grabbed another one. She climbed into the tub atop the wet girl and struggled to bind up her wound.  She would _not _lose like this.  


	21. Faith

                Isabelle Pierce awoke with a start.  The last thing she remembered was lying on her apartment floor, her gun in her hand.  A killer's blade had sought her out.  Now she sat up, her pulse racing, and looked around.  

                She was in a white room, lying in a bed.   Instead of the blouse and pants she had worn when attacked, she had on a white gown with blue dots.  Next to her, an IV stand stood sentinel and slowly dripped clear fluid into her.   There was a window in the room.  Beyond the window was all black.  It was night.  A nurse in pink scrubs stood by her bedside.  

                A hospital.  She was in the hospital.  Thank God.  

                "Good morning," the nurse said calmly.  "You're awake.  How are you feeling?"  

                "Where is he?" Isabelle asked.  

                The nurse looked puzzled.  "Where is who?"  

                "The man who attacked me," Isabelle said.  She gestured at herself.  "He…he stabbed me.  But I got him, too.  He _must _have been admitted.  I hit him in the stomach."  

                "Right," the nurse said.  "I don't know, Ms. Pierce.  You're all right, and you're safe.  That's what matters.  Let me get a doctor for you."  

                "No, wait," Isabelle Pierce said.  "I mean I _shot _him.  In the stomach.  He's either here or he's dead."  

                The nurse smiled tolerantly, as if this was simply idle fantasy.  For a moment the detective expected her to pat her on the head and say _Of course you did.  _Instead, she simply raised a hand in tolerant warning.  

                "Now, Ms. Pierce," she said.  "You need to rest.  You had emergency surgery.  I'm just going to get a doctor for you and then you can talk to the police.  But for now you need to relax."  

                A few moments later, Isabelle Pierce was somewhat – but not overly – surprised to see Dr. Elaine Litton enter the room.  She eyed the short surgeon carefully.  

                "Detective Pierce," Dr. Litton said in her crisp American accent.  "How are you feeling?"  

                "All right," the detective said warily.  "I didn't know you worked in this hospital."  

                Dr. Litton smiled calmly.  "I cover for them when they need it," she explained.  "So what happened to you?"    

                _Awfully convenient, Dr. Lander, _Isabelle Pierce thought.  _What might you know about what happened to me?  _Then again, she supposed, it would have been easy for Dr. Litton to kill her on the operating table.  What sort of game was she playing?  

                "I was attacked," the detective said warily.  

                "Yes, you were," Dr. Litton answered.  "The police want to talk to you, by the way.  Fortunately, the damage was not too bad.  We got you patched up.  You'll need to stay here for a few days so we can monitor you, but you should be released to go out and fight another day."  

                "Thank you," the detective said.  "Monitor me? For what?"  

                "Your liver was lacerated," Elaine Litton said nonchalantly.  

                The detective made a moue of distaste.  "Dr. Litton," she asked urgently, "I shot the man who stabbed me.  Was there anyone admitted with a GSW to the stomach last night?"  

                Dr. Litton smiled calmly at her.  "Not that I know of," she said.  "Look, leave the detective business aside for right now.  You just need to rest.  Let the nurse know if you need anything."  

                _Right, that's **exactly **what you want, isn't it?  _

                They sent up a few uniformed cops who annoyed the crap out of her with their clumsy questions.  It was all she could do to avoid grabbing the clipboard and filling the bloody form out herself.  After explaining six times that she had shot her assailant in the gut and seen blood all over the place, would they _mind _going down to her apartment and typing, perhaps, she was ready to explode.  

                But once they were gone, all she had to do was sit here.  She was uncomfortably aware that all she had to do was lie here under the watchful gaze of the woman she believed to be an American fugitive.  The nurses would have made most effective prison guards, she found out.  When she got out of bed one of them was on her like a shot. 

                "Did you need something?" the nurse asked sweetly.  

                "The bathroom," Isabelle said quickly, the first thing that came to mind.  

                "You're not supposed to get out of bed yet," the nurse admonished.  

                _Well, pardon me, Your Grace.  _"You don't want me to mess the bed, do you?" Isabelle pointed out.

                "We'd bring you a bedpan," the nurse said indulgently.    

                "I'd rather not," Isabelle offered.  

                "Hop back in bed," the nurse said.  "Let me ask your doctor."  

                Slightly miffed that she needed medical permission to urinate, Isabelle Pierce got back into bed and waited.  She kept her ears pricked.  The nurse's voice echoed in the hall.  

                "Dr. Litton," the nurse said in the tones of a supplicant, "Ms. Pierce wants to go to the bathroom."  

                She heard the surgeon sigh.  "I'm sorry, Melanie, I just had a patient vomit on me."  

                _Ewwwwe, _Isabelle Pierce thought.  

                "She can go to the bathroom, sure.  Keep an eye on her and make sure she can walk.  Also have her let you know if there's blood in it.  If there is, get a sample and send it down to the lab."  

                "Very well," the nurse said.  "Here, I'll get you another scrub shirt."  

                "Thank you," the surgeon said.  There was the sound of rustling cloth.  An idea hit the detective.

                Isabelle Pierce was already on her feet when the nurse arrived.  This was a rare opportunity.   Dropped right in her lap, too.  She wouldn't lose it.  

                "You must really have to go," the nurse quipped.  

                _Actually, _Isabelle Pierce thought, _I'm more interested in seeing Elaine Litton change her shirt, but never mind that. You go right ahead and feel superior because I need your permission to go pee.   _

But she wheeled her IV stand along under the watchful eye of the nurse, who saw her into the bathroom down the hall.  She was hoping it would be a larger bathroom, one with multiple stalls.  She was in luck.  The scent of vomit stung her nostrils unpleasantly.  Yes, the surgeon was here.  

                The middle stall was closed, and she could see the doctor's sneakers under the door.  Isabelle Pierce picked up the IV stand so the squeak of its wheels would not give her away.  She scurried into the stall next to Dr. Litton's.  

                The smooth plastic of the toilet seat was cold on her bare feet as she stood on the toilet.  She braced herself against the wall and carefully peeped over the top of the stall.  Dr. Litton was thankfully turned away from her, bundling up her lab coat.  

                _I'm turning into a bloody pervert, _the detective thought ruefully.  

                 In front of her, Elaine Litton stripped off her scrub shirt and put it on the bundle of soiled clothing.  She was quite fair, Detective Pierce noted.  The black straps of her bra stood out starkly against her skin.  But Isabelle was looking lower.  

                Two faded scars curled from below the waistband of Elaine Litton's scrub pants.  Time had rendered them less prominent than they once had been, but there were still there and quite visible.  Two F-shaped scars, curving towards each other.  Scars that resembled the F-holes on a violin.  

                Scars that had been photographed by the FBI four years ago when Erin Lander had been handed over to American custody.  Scars that Hannibal Lecter had put there a dozen years ago, when Erin Lander had been a medical student who had caught his eye.  

                _I **knew **it, _Isabelle Pierce thought.  _I just knew it!  _  

                Yet she could not detain the surgeon here or now.  She'd gotten yelled at for pursuing the Littons before.  Besides, common sense dictated she should be out of the hospital before trying it.  She didn't want to be in Dr. Litton's grasp.  

                She waited until Dr. Litton left the bathroom before exiting the stall.  A smile crossed her face.   After having been held up so many times over this, she would be vindicated.  She went back meekly to bed and laid down.  

                _You just wait, _she thought.  _I'll catch that bloody Cannibal Killer yet.  I have faith.  _

…

                For the next few days, Clarice found herself back in a place she was used to being.  

                It wasn't her duplex.  Rebecca DeGould had rendered her former home a burnt-out hulk.  Nor was it Quantico.  She'd been staying away from the FBI.  Clarice had no illusions about the foe she faced.  Rebecca DeGould had help from others in the FBI; she hadn't been able to pull this off on her own.  Clarice did not know how far DeGould's tentacles reached.  She kept her contact with the FBI limited to what was necessary.  Her own agency could not be trusted.   

                No, the place Clarice was in was one she knew all too well.  The glass ceiling.  The box.  She could take two steps forward and immediately be forced a step and a half back.  Then it was largely a matter of hanging onto that half step by her fingernails.  Moving forward seemed to take superhuman effort.  She'd known it all too well in her FBI career, until Paul Krendler had died. 

                Brittany had survived by the skin of her teeth.  Her wounds had been sutured and they'd run blood into her in a nearby emergency room.  Pearsall, God bless him, had found a psychiatric hospital in Pennsylvania, and they'd admitted her there under another name.  It was two hours and change away from DC by car. Far enough away that DeGould wouldn't be able to find her easily, close enough that they could get to her when they needed to.    

Both Pearsall and Paul had argued that it made the most sense to put Brittany in jail, where she could be closely monitored.  Clarice knew better.  She'd been to prison herself.  Hell, the whole reason she was fighting this was to avoid going back to prison in Brittany's place.  Putting the kid in a jail or prison would simply convince her that there would be no benefit to helping them.  That would lock her lips tighter than a bank vault.  This wasn't Dr. Lecter they were dealing with, but in some ways that was harder.  They'd been able to offer Dr. Lecter what he wanted in order to loosen his lips.   

                So she was heading out there again.  Their first meeting with her had gone poorly, to say the least.  Brittany had remained stubbornly mute.  According to the doctors, she had barely spoken at all since being admitted.  

                But Clarice _had _to reach her, somehow.  It was intently frustrating.  Everything she needed was in Brittany's head.  She could arrest DeGould.  She could free Ardelia.  She could restore herself to her old position.  

                She could do all those things, if only she could get Brittany to talk.

                So here she was, trying again.  The hospital wasn't anything like the Chesapeake asylum that Dr. Lecter had been kept in.  It was private, quiet, and came pretty highly recommended.  She didn't know how Pearsall was paying for it.  For right now it didn't matter.    

                Security was tight here, but nothing like the asylum.  In lieu of steel bars and gates, there were a few twin steel doors that locked off the patients from the outside world.  Clarice explained who she was, checked her weapon, and was admitted.  

                The ward that Brittany was on was towards the back. It reminded Clarice of the orphanage she had grown up in, more than anything else.  Large institutional walls.  Bland linoleum on the floor.  The cleanlier-than-thou scent of Lysol.  As she entered the ward, she noted one other difference from the asylum: patients here were allowed to wear street clothes.  A few patients roamed the ward.  Their faces were blank and their demons stilled with Thorazine. The walls were a dull cream color.   

                The charge nurse helpfully brought Clarice to a visiting room and went to go get Brittany.  How things had changed, Clarice thought.  There were no bars here.  No restraints.  Then again, it wasn't like Brittany was going to attack her.   

                The visiting room itself contained a wood-grained table and a few chairs.  The chairs were arranged at a forty-five degree angle to each other, so that either party could break eye contact.  Clarice remembered some of her psychology classes.  Even this was planned; the patient's chair had the back to the wall, so that the patient might feel safer.  The walls were painted with the same bland colors.  There was a single window in the room, overlooking some green fields.  Clarice sighed.  

                This time, she was on her lonesome.  Paul was a nice guy, but he was big and threatening.  Clarice wanted to avoid the third degree, if she could.  She turned as the door opened.  

                Brittany Tollman entered the room.  She wore a pair of sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt. White gauze bandages peeked out from the cuffs of the sweatshirt.  When she saw Clarice, her eyes flashed suspicion for just a moment.  Then her face slid with long practice into the convict's stone face, betraying none of her motives.  

                "Hi, Brittany," Clarice said.  She smiled sympathetically.  

                "Good morning," Brittany said distantly.

                Clarice swallowed.  "I came to see how you were holding up," she said calmly.  

                Brittany shrugged.  "Lousy," she said.  "Were you expecting me to thank you for saving my life?"  

                Clarice had thought that might be nice, but wasn't expecting it.  "Are you grateful for that?"  

                Brittany smiled tightly.  "No," she said.  "I'm not going to thank you for a life spent in a cage.  You should have just let me go."  

                  Clarice reached over the table and put her hand on the other woman's arm.  "No," she whispered.  "That's not true.  I know you think it's hopeless, but it's not."  

                Brittany's arm and expression remained equally hard.  "Easy for you to say," she said.  "You're not the one going back to prison."   

                Clarice paused.  "Brittany," she said, "you know, the only reason I _went to prison in the first place was to help.  To check up on people like you.  Make sure you were OK.  I can help you, you know."  _

                Brittany chuckled bitterly.  "I doubt that," she said.  

                "Look," Clarice said.  "If you help me, I can help you.  We could get you into a federal prison.  Low-security or a camp.  You'd have more privileges there.  I could see what I could do."  

                Brittany shook her head.  "Forget it," she said.  "If I gotta go back, I gotta go back.  But I'm not snitching out Kiera.  She got away and I hope you never catch her."  

                _If I don't, Clarice thought, __I'll never get Ardelia out.    The thought of that made her sick to her stomach.  She glanced at the wall for a moment or two.  _

                "Brittany, my friend's in prison," she said.  "She doesn't deserve to be there.  Now look…there are so many charges over your head right now.  Impersonating a federal agent.  Conspiracy to alter records.  Accessory to arson.  You _need help, Brittany.  I can help you.  Let me."  _

                Brittany sighed.  "Look," she said bitterly, "maybe this is a little selfish of me, but your friend isn't my problem."  Her Southern accent softened the hard words.  "This is the thing, Starling…all you care about is people like you.  Your friend doin a year or two in prison makes you all weak at the knees.  But me and Kiera, we're looking at the rest of our lives.  That doesn't bother you a bit, does it?"  

                "We can try to help you if you cooperate," Clarice pointed out pensively.  

                "I tried that once," Brittany answered.  "When I got caught the first time.  Cooperated and was a good little girl.  Testified against him and everything.  It got me twenty-five to life.  I _know _the game you're playing, Starling.  I played it once before."  

                Clarice stopped.  She took a deep breath.  "I'm…not playing a game."  

                "Yes, you are," Brittany said.  She smiled a con-wise smile.  "As long as I got information you want, you're gonna be oh so nice to me.  You'll promise me the world to get me to talk.  You haven't brought out the bad guy yet.  I suppose that big Italian guy from Brooklyn's gonna play that role."      

                "No," Clarice said.  "No, I'm not."   Brittany ignored her, glancing out the window.  

                "Yes," she said.  "Whatever it takes to get me to cough up.  That's what people like you do with people like me.  Police and cons.  Once I give it up, though, things change.  Then all of a sudden, things fall through.  You couldn't arrange things for a minimum-security prison.  You're real sorry.  You'll try.  I just gotta hang on for a bit, right?  Then you go off and do your thing and I go back to Bedford Hills and Kiera goes back to Broward CI. And that's that."  She pantomimed crumpling up a piece of paper and throwing it over her shoulder.  

                Clarice stopped.  Part of this was true.  Brittany's record indicated as much.  She had gotten a pretty raw deal from the prosecutors the first time around.  Part of this was the convict's tendency to see unfairness even when none existed.  That, Clarice could understand, frustrating as it was.  She'd seen plenty of unfairness in prison.   But part of this was simple roles.  Brittany was a convict; Clarice was a cop.  Her gun and badge rendered her the enemy.  Brittany refused to see any further beyond that. 

                "Brittany, you need some help," Clarice tried again.  "You're in a lot of trouble."  

                Brittany nodded.  "I guess so," she said.  "But I'm in trouble _no matter what.  I'm going back _no matter what.  _If I go back, I'm going back with my head held high.  I'm not snitching.  You know how snitches are treated in prison.  Twenty years, thirty, forty…the hell with it.  They'll do it anyway.  No."_

                Clarice let out a sigh that mostly hid the pained gasp she wanted to emit.  What the hell was she supposed to do? The idea of Ardelia stuck in that cell for the foreseeable future made her want to scream, to rage, and to cry.  It felt like a spike driven through her chest.  For a moment the idea of torturing it out of the recalcitrant convict occurred to her and she choked it off.  

                As if sensing her pain, Brittany spoke more softly.  

                "Look," she said, "it's not like your friend's gonna be down forever.  They'll let her out."  

                Clarice stared at Brittany insensibly.  How could she think like this?  How could she look the other way at an innocent woman being imprisoned for life? Was she that jaded?  

                "They won't let her out," Clarice managed, "until I can prove she's not Kiera."  

                Brittany shrugged.  "You'll get her out," she said.  

                "How?" Clarice asked.  

                "People like you always get what they want," Brittany said dismissively.  

                Clarice snorted.  "I only wish that were true," she said.  _If that were true, kiddo, Rebecca DeGould would be the one fighting off assholes like Beck.  "It's not that simple."  _

                Brittany shrugged again.  It seemed she honestly believed Clarice had the ability to simply wave a wand and set Ardelia free and this whole goddam mess right.  "For people like you, it is," she maintained.  

                "You talk like I'm from Mars or something," Clarice said.  "Brittany, we were in the same cell.  We got to know each other a little bit.  People do care.  _I care.  I wouldn't have done the prison project if I didn't."  _

                Brittany waved a hand in a _pooh-pooh _gesture.  "You did the prison project so some Senator could make a speech," she said.  "That's all.  Nothing was gonna change.  Just like I told you back in prison.  Nobody gives a shit."  

                Clarice struggled with herself.  "You're not even giving me a chance," she said.  

                "I didn't get one, either," Brittany said.

                Clarice grabbed her leg hard to avoid doing what she wanted to do, which was grab Brittany and shake her until she quit acting like a goddam rebellious teenager.  

                "So," Clarice said briskly, "you're going to let an innocent woman spend the rest of her life in prison because you think you were treated unfairly.   Seems sort of petty to me."  

                Brittany adopted an insouciant posture and shrugged.  "Course it seems petty to you," she said.  "You know damn well you'll get a judge to wave his gavel and get your friend out.  But to answer your question, yes.  When the price of that woman's freedom is _my _friend's freedom, and _she _didn't deserve to be in prison either, then yes.  I'll hold my mud and let my friend go free.  You can free your friend yourself.  I'm not betraying mine."  She crossed her arms.

                Clarice felt her pulse race.  What would she do, if their positions were reversed?  Probably the same damn thing.  But this was inconceivable.  There had to be another tack.  _Had to be something.    _

                "You know," Clarice pointed out, "I have the fingerprint card now.  Do you know what that means, Brittany?  It means that what Rebecca DeGould did is going to be undone.  They'll know I'm me, and they'll know you're you.  And DeGould is not going to help you.  She's not kind to those who fail her."  Clarice had not yet gone formally to the FBI to be reinstated, but Brittany did not need to know that.  She was holding off on that until she was able to get DeGould once and for all.  For now, she could get what support she needed through Paul and Pearsall.  

                Brittany did not seem affected.  

                "Doesn't it bother you knowing that she'll be driving around in her Audi, free as a bird, while you're spending the rest of your life in prison?"  

                Brittany struggled to remain nonchalant.  "She had nothing to do with it," she said smoothly.  

                "Bullshit.  I know she did.  Why protect her?  She won't protect you."      

                "Maybe," Brittany said.  "Am I under arrest, Starling?"  

                Clarice shook her head.  

                "Then I'd like to end the questioning now," Brittany said easily.  

                "No," Clarice said.  "Listen to me, Brittany.  You have to listen to me.  I want to help you.  But you have to help me."  

                "You won't and you can't.  We've been through that.  But I got group therapy in a couple of minutes.  This loony bin you threw me in is pretty strict about that sort of thing."  

                "Wait," Clarice said, her voice icy and commanding.  "Dammit, Brittany, help me.  I'll help you.  Trust me.  I won't forget you.  I know you got screwed over before, but you have to give me--,"  

                Brittany sighed.  "No, I don't," she said.  

                "Give me a chance, Brittany.  I'll think of _something.  Show me some faith."  _

                Brittany rose from her chair and opened the door.  Clarice clenched her teeth together and felt her pulse race.  The prisoner stopped, framing herself in the doorway.  

                "Only fools have faith," she said, and then she was gone.  

                …

                Rebecca DeGould was angry.  

                Things were not good, but they could've been a lot worse.  Clarice was free, but as soon as she was picked up, back to Bedford Hills she went.  The system said she was still Brittany, and thus an escapee.  But DeGould knew better.  

                And she'd been to Rebecca's _home.  _How the hell had she done that?  Someone had seen the girls fleeing with her after them.  She'd arrested Brittany.  _Arrested _her.  Inconceivable.   911 records had indicated that an ambulance had been sent out to her home.  Suicide bid.  Apparently little Brittany had decided to slash her wrists.  DeGould found that amusing.  It was actually smart; once Rebecca got her hands on the stupid little slut, she'd learn the price of failure.  

                Kiera was gone.  DeGould was not sure where she had gone, either.  Her little prisoners hadn't shared that with her.  The ingrates.  If not for Rebecca DeGould they'd have been left to rot in their respective prisons.  

                Brittany had been hospitalized and treated.  Rebecca had tracked her down that far.  After that, the trail went cold.  The people with her had been described as Clarice and a tall, blocky Italian guy with a New York accent.  Both had showed FBI credentials and said the suspect was under arrest.  After that, they had taken her away, and the trail had gone cold.  

                They'd admitted her under a false name – Rachel Dugan.  Rebecca noticed the RDG theme – her own initials.  Did Starling think that was cute?  DeGould would show her cute.  Perhaps she'd throw Brittany in Chowchilla alongside her under that name.  That would be a real knee-slapper.

                Rebecca was a good profiler, in her own right.  She could induce what that meant.  Clarice had help within the FBI.  Whoever it was would suffer a great deal.  Big blocky guy with a New York accent.  It couldn't be _that _hard to run him down.  The name he'd given at the hospital was Agent Bob Sneed.  Apparently Starling's ally was a wiseass.   

                 On the other hand, it gave her an excuse to terminate him with extreme prejudice.  DeGould knew that she had put too much into this to lose now.  She'd planned – originally – to spare Clarice's life.  She would suffer, but that was only just and right.  She had made DeGould suffer.  And _no one _did that to Rebecca DeGould and got away with it.  

                However, Clarice had thrown sand into the gears of her plan.  DeGould knew perfectly well what would happen to her if Clarice remained free for too long.  Arson, conspiracy, and the like.  Rebecca could well afford to fight off criminal charges from now until doomsday.  But she wouldn't allow a gun-crazed hick like Clarice Starling to slap the cuffs on her.  Prison was fine for the little people like Brittany and Kiera, but Rebecca DeGould would fight.  

                If she had to, she would simply execute Clarice Starling and be done with it.  Her friend, too.  It would be easy.  Once they identified Clarice's body as Brittany's, that would be that.  Escaped prisoner, shot by an FBI agent, done deal.  As far as getting Clarice's ally, that might create more problems.  

                DeGould looked into the mirror above her monitor.  "I didn't know he was FBI," she told the mirror.  Her eyes widened in mock despair.  She laced her fingers together and raised them to her chin.  "Besides, he was helping an escaped felon.  I _had _to shoot him."  

                It would be easy enough. Find them.  Shoot them both.  Then quit the FBI.  It would be a snowy day in hell before they indicted her for killing an escaped felon and a rogue agent.  It wasn't like she planned to stay here.  Her future lay back in New York.  She was an arbitrage trader, not an FBI agent.  This was just…unfinished business.  

                But it wasn't unfinished business that she would allow to consume her.  She would not become a prisoner either.  She would catch Starling if she could.  Otherwise she'd just shoot her and finish it once and for all.  For now, however, things concentrated on young Brittany.  

                Starling had Brittany.  Therefore, Rebecca had to take Brittany from Starling.  First things first.  Brittany knew better than to talk.  There was no upside for her at all.  Clarice might be the Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences, but she couldn't help Brittany.  Rebecca DeGould had done her homework.  Brittany Tollman's plea agreement forbade her from attempting to appeal her sentence.  It was too late for any reconsideration.  Brittany Tollman was doomed to serve twenty-five years no matter what.  

                Kiera was an issue.  She suspected Brittany knew where she was.  Once Brittany was in her hands, she would get it out of the little wench.  It would be easy.  Once little Brittany was caught, DeGould would have to think about it.  She was tempted to dump her back in New York.  They could hold her easily enough.  Or maybe slam-dunk her into a psychiatric hospital.  

                She'd been calling around for hours, trying to see if Clarice had put Brittany into a local jail under another name.  There was nothing.  Once she had found her, the rest would be easy.  She could send the boys from New York DOC anywhere she wanted to.  

                Nothing.  Had Clarice stuck her in West Virginia?  DeGould shuddered at the thought of having to call every last Podunk jail in the country.  But she would if she had to.  For her own amusement, Rebecca DeGould thought of how that would go.  _Howdy, y'all, Ah'm a-lookin for this yere prisoner who done gone and slashed her wrists right open.  Y'all got her?  _

Then her own thought hit her again.  A psychiatric hospital.  That was it.  Starling was such a weak sister when it came to victims.  Instead of slamming Brittany's ass in prison, _that _was probably what she had done.  It was exactly Starling's means of handling the situation.  She'd be all moony over Brittany's pain and want to get Brittany some help, so she wouldn't slit her wrists again.  Oh you poor thing, let me help you.  Sob, bawl, weep.  Didn't she realize Brittany was just being manipulative?  Stupid bitch.  

                Rebecca DeGould sat there and thought.  If it were a loony bin, it wouldn't be somewhere close.  Not Virginia, or DC, or Maryland.  Little Brittany would be too easy to find there.  Clarice Starling had never given her adversary credit for her brains; Rebecca DeGould would not make the same mistake.  

                But it would be somewhere close.  Somewhere within a few hours by car, so that Clarice could go and contact her captive.  Probably beg her to toss over Kiera and Rebecca herself for Mapp's sake.  On that, DeGould was more confident.  So long as Starling couldn't do squat about the remaining twenty years over Brittany's head, Brittany had no incentive at all to cooperate.  Although she hated to rely on underlings, she'd have to hope that the little dipstick could be trusted to keep her yap shut until DeGould could find her.

 She took out a map of the United States and began to examine it carefully.  The FBI's resources allowed her to pull up a list of every mental hospital, public or private, in the northeastern and central United States.  Then she picked up the phone and began to dial.

                In each case, her story was the same.  She was calling from the local police department.  She was looking for a suicidal patient with deep slashes down her arms.  She helpfully provided Brittany's description each. They were attempting to locate her to see if she would sign a protection order against her abusive husband; had there been anyone admitted to the hospital meeting that description?  

                In most cases, the staff was willing to help, but there was no patient meeting that description.  She expected that and kept dialing.  Eventually, she would find her prey.   She had faith.


	22. Downturns

                It was time now.  

                The killer had done his job well.  He had taken the nosy detective out of commission.  Checking at the hospital had indicated that Detective Pierce had survived the attack.  She would remain in the hospital for a few days.  That was just fine.  All he needed was a few days.  

                He drove out again to Watson's Bay, stopping along the access road to observe the mansion.  Here was where the wealthy people were.  The moonlight danced white filigree across the dark water.  His heels clocked against the macadam and then clashed against the crushed rock of the driveway.  

                He would not look suspicious.  His kit was concealed in an attaché case.  He wore a suit and would raise no eyebrows.  He walked up the steps and stared at the double black doors. The hardware was brass and brightly polished.  Quite grand, really.  What a suitable meal.  Perhaps he'd come back and have the actual meal here.  

                He rang the doorbell and waited patiently.  A few minutes later, he heard footsteps approach the door.  He knew already that he was being eyed through the peephole, but that was all right.   

                Elaine Litton opened the door and eyed him carefully.  

                "Ian," she said, looking surprised.  "What are you doing here?"  The American accent intrigued him.  America.  That was where his idol had come from.   

                "I had some test results of yours that came back," the killer said smoothly.  "I just happened to be in the area."  

                She eyed him with some suspicion.  "Why didn't you send them to the office?" she queried.  "That's what you usually do."  

                "If you prefer, I'll do that," he said.  "Just some anomalies I thought bore checking out."  He smiled pleasantly.  "May I come in?"  

                Her eyes narrowed.  Was she still alone?  Perhaps she was, along with her little boy.  No husband to muck things up.  _That _would be much better.  Dr. Hamilton Litton was older, but the killer had seen an inner strength in him through the lenses of binoculars.  

                And he wasn't at full strength himself.  The detective had shot him.  Resourceful girl, more than he'd thought.  Fortunately, he had access to antibiotics and painkillers all on his own. Once he'd escaped, he'd pulled the bullet out himself and patched it as best he could.  Also, his prey was short and slight.  He didn't think she would be able to put up much resistance to him.  

                But she was a surgeon, and she noticed his stiffness as he entered the home.  What he saw took his breath away.  The Littons were extremely well off.  Where there were not fine carpets there was finely polished parquet floor.  The home was _huge.  _He tilted his head and stared into the dining room where the dinner party had been held not so long ago. 

                "Is something wrong?" she asked.  "You're moving a little funny."  

                _That's where the bloody detective gut-shot me, Elaine.  But never mind that.  _

"Just a bit stiff," he said.  "Working out, you know."  He smiled at her to allay her suspicions.  The sound of small footsteps made his head turn.  A dark-haired little boy, perhaps three, walked into the room and watched him suspiciously with maroon eyes.  

                "Mum, who is that?" the little boy asked.  

                _Hmmm, _the Cannibal Killer thought.  _The little boy.  What shall I do with him?  _

Well, perhaps a veal dish would be nice.  

                The little boy crossed around the room and hid behind his mum's legs.  His small hands grasped her pants and held on for dear life.  Now was the time.  

                The Cannibal Killer put his attaché case on a table and opened it.  He had rope, a blackjack, a blindfold and gag, some garbage bags, and some extra clothing.  He picked up the blackjack and swung.  

                But his side ached as he did, and he felt a blast of pain up his side.  Something ripped open inside and he grunted.  Elaine Litton was quicker on the uptake than he thought.  Her eyes widened and she took a step back.   The blackjack seemed to strike some sort of chord in her; it was almost as if she'd seen it before.  She stumbled a bit over her son and then grabbed him, running for the kitchen.   A loud scream echoed through the house.  The killer was not concerned; there was too much distance between houses for it to be a much concern.  

                The Cannibal Killer cursed and pursued her.  In the kitchen, she put her son in the corner and then turned to face him with wide eyes.  From a wooden knife block on the counter she pulled a gleaming French chef's knife.  

                "Get out," she said.  "Just get out."  

                Erin Lander had never been violent.  She had always despised violence, seeing its results every day.  But the most dangerous place in the world is between a mother and her children, and in this Erin was no exception.  She pressed her son into the corner and stood between him and the psycho in her kitchen.  The triangular blade flashed out in a deadly oval slash.  

                The killer grunted as the blade slit his arm.  A bright flash of silvery pain flashed up his nerves.  He bared his teeth and waded in.  It took a moment to slip the blackjack into his other hand.  The right one no longer worked adequately.  

                She slashed him a few more times on the arms, but he ignored it as best he could.  The blade sank into his side, where the detective had shot him, and he grunted in pain.  But then he was in, close in, and the sap came down hard.  Once, twice, three times.  Elaine Litton's eyes dimmed and she went limp.  The knife clattered to the floor.  

                The killer let out a wounded noise as he bent to lift her.  She was quite light, even as deadweight.  Then he turned his attention to the squalling boy in the corner.  

                "Hmm," he said.  "I've never tried…a veal dish."  

                To grab up the boy took only a moment.  Then, even laden down with two victims, his feet were fleet along the gravel of the driveway.  He dropped the unconscious surgeon in the trunk.  The engine started.  The boy was still screaming, but that was all right; it was night and he would be home soon.  

                He was ready for his meal.  

…

                Brittany sat in the TV room, watching soap operas with the rest of the crazies.  Group therapy was over and done with.  Brittany thought it was a pointless waste of time.  All those people whining about their problems were supposed to make her feel _better? _As if she didn't have enough problems.  Her second chance gone, 

                Yet the hospital was more comfortable than she would have thought.  She'd been given some clothing and some medication to 'help her relax', so they'd said.  She'd taken it and felt sort of stoned.  After that she'd quit the meds.  They might be trying to dope her up to get her to talk; it wouldn't surprise her.  

 It was better than prison, though.  The food was better and they let her wear her own clothes.   They made her go to art class.  That she had found privately hysterical.  _Art class?  _In prison, there were crafters and artists who made stuff.  She'd been pretty good at drawing, but it was harder these days.  Her arms ached and holding things hurt.  She had more leisure time than she did in prison.   Most of the loony-tunes in here watched TV whenever there wasn't some sort of scheduled activity.     

It was a pretty goddam sorry state of affairs when someone threw you in the loony bin and you ended up liking it, she supposed.  Still, she was just waiting.  Eventually Starling was going to drop the other shoe, and in the experience of Brittany Tollman that shoe would likely end up on the back of her neck.  Starling was all sweetness and light now, but that was only because Brittany had information she wanted.  

One of them must have grabbed her bag out of Miss DeGould's condo.  They'd sent along her clothes.  _Her _clothes, the ones she'd bought while free.  They'd gone through it.  She could tell.  Having her possessions rifled and searched was something she was all too used to.  It wasn't all bad, though.  It reminded her that she was a prisoner and they were cops.  

What the hell was Starling pushing her for anyway?  She was a cop.  Cops always got what they wanted. The system was set up for their benefit.   Hadn't Starling noticed that when she was in?  And besides, Brittany thought, the proof was in the pudding.  Starling was free.  She might have been _playing _con, but she _was _a cop.  Brittany had been in Bedford Hills for five years; Starling had gotten out in a month or so.  She'd get her friend out.  

Eventually she would go back to prison.  She knew that.  If she had to go, she would not sell out her accomplices.  She'd grown extremely close to Kiera in the time they'd been together.  They were two of a kind.  Brittany would _not _give her up.   If their positions had been reversed, Kiera would have done the same for her.  She could understand Starling's loyalty to her friend; why couldn't Starling understand her loyalty to hers?    

Her feelings on Miss DeGould were more mixed.  At first she had felt only gratitude towards the woman who had given her a second chance.  Then, as she had gotten to see more and more of Rebecca DeGould's mean side, she had begun to fear her benefactor.  Had the situation been different, she might have been willing to give up Rebecca DeGould to Starling.  But the facts were there.  Rebecca DeGould held power in New York.  Brittany was going back to a New York prison.  Once she was incarcerated again, she would be completely under DeGould's thumb for the next twenty years.

She'd also suspected that everything Miss DeGould had told her about Clarice Starling was not true.  She hadn't tortured Brittany.  She'd sent along her stuff.  Although, Brittany had to allow, that was because she wanted her friend back.    

Besides, she reflected, Rebecca DeGould had done everything she could to give Brittany a second chance.  Clarice Starling meant to take away her second chance and return her to prison.  Cooperating was not an option.  She knew where that would lead: she'd give everything and get screwed over.  

Escaping the psychiatric hospital was not an option.  The ward was locked and they wouldn't let her off the ward.  They weren't satisfied that she wasn't a danger to herself.  That was a hoot.  Making her spend the rest of her life in prison?  Oh, _that _was perfectly humane.  But letting her decide to simply opt out and die free?  That couldn't be allowed.  No, they were going to force her to live so they could throw her back in a cage.  

One of the nurses was prowling around.  She heard the nurse's voice float over the dialogue of the soap opera and the grumbling of the crazies.  It was her name.  Or her alias, actually.  The name Starling had forced on her just as DeGould had forced Starling's name on her.  

"Brittany?  Brittany Miller?"  

Brittany debated not responding and hoping the nurse went away.  But she stuck her head up and raised her hand desultorily.  

"Hi," the nurse smiled.  "There are some people here who want to talk to you."  

When Brittany saw who it was, she sighed and hung her head in resignation.  Part of her had hoped that somehow, by some way, she might have a second chance yet.  But it was not to be.   She should have known this was coming.  

…

                Clarice Starling was frustrated.  She was spinning her wheels.  Talking to Brittany was going nowhere.  Ardelia was still in prison.  She was still in this half-netherworld between the FBI agent she had once been and the fugitive felon that Rebecca DeGould had made her into.  

                Paul DaSilva had been TDY'ed down to Quantico, and so he was entitled to a hotel room.  She was sharing that with him.  A phantom, not officially part of the FBI.  She hated it.  

                Paul was in the shower.   He tended to take his time in the shower.  She glanced over at the bathroom door with some resentment.  When was all this going to end?  When had she suffered enough? 

The cell phone Pearsall had issued to her rang.  Clarice grabbed it and held it to her ear.  

                "Barton," she said, the alias that Pearsall had issued her FBI ID, gun, and phone in.  

                "Barton?  I'm sorry, I have misdialed," a metallic voice said.  

                Clarice felt her stomach tense.  "Dr. Lecter?" she asked.  

                A second's pause.  "No," he said.  

                _Duh, Clarice, _she thought to herself.  

                "Dr. Crawford, I'm sorry," she improvised.  

                "That's better."  He sounded awfully amused.  "I am on layover," he continued.  "I thought perhaps I would check in and see how things were going."  

                Clarice smiled sadly.  Even through all this, he still cared.  Sure, he was going back to his wife and kid, and sure, she might never see him again, but he cared.  

                "Not well," she admitted.  Then she sighed.  It all came out in a tumbling mass.   "You might know.  I need to get Brittany to talk to me.  She's got everything I need.  But she won't talk.  No matter what I threaten her with, she won't talk."  

                Dr. Lecter seemed nonplussed.  "I see," he said.  

                "I don't suppose you'd be willing to talk to her," Clarice said, fishing for an offer.  

                "I'm afraid that's not possible, Agent Barton."  Dr. Lecter chuckled as if using the pseudonym was _ever _so amusing.  "I'm no longer in the United States or even close."  

                Clarice's mouth quirked.  "Would you talk to her on the phone?"  

                Dr. Lecter considered.  "And what would I be doing?"  

                "How about getting her to let my friend out of prison and fess up on DeGould?"  Clarice suggested.  

                There were a few moments as he considered.  "And what were you planning to offer her?"  

                Clarice sighed.  "I don't know," she said.  "I've got her sort of tucked away right now.  I have to bring her out so that she can testify.  I was thinking we could try to take her into federal custody, maybe let her serve out her sentence at a minimum-security federal facility."  

                Dr. Lecter paused.  "Pardon me for seeming rude," he said, "but you want her to give you everything and you offer her 'maybes' and 'we'll try' in response?"  

                Air hissed through Clarice's teeth in frustration.  She'd told herself the same thing.  "Dr. Lecter, someone has to take the first step," she said.  "I'm not going to screw her over, either."  

                "I shall not," Dr. Lecter said.  "Not when you can do better."  

                Clarice stopped and gripped the phone hard.  "What do you mean, do better?" she asked hotly.  

                "Basic trade, Clarice.  Just as you did with me.  _Quid pro quo.  _Not _quid pro _maybe."  He adopted a pedantic tone.  Clarice could just see him declaiming away in some airport somewhere at a pay phone.  

                "The answer to your dilemma is simpler than you think," Dr. Lecter said.  "First, basic logic.  If A, then B.  You seek to trade, just as you did with me.  I can see her side more clearly than you, Clarice – prisoners usually demand to work COD with the authorities.  They've had too many bad experiences otherwise."  

                "I'm not gonna stiff her," Clarice protested.  

                "_She _doesn't believe that. Nor is it reasonable for her to believe you. Look at it from her point of view: for all her faults, Rebecca DeGould gave her freedom; you seek to take it away."  

                "Dr. Lecter, I _can't _give her freedom.  She's already been sentenced.  It's a done deal."  

                "Normally, you would be right," Dr. Lecter said.  "However, in _this _case, you are wrong.  You are more powerful than you think, Clarice."  

                Clarice sighed.  "It's not like with you, Dr. Lecter," she said.  "I need her to testify.  I can't just take the cuffs off her and say 'Go run'.  I need her in court, so she can't be a fugitive."  

                "She won't be," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  "You _can _have what you want, Clarice.  You simply have to figure out what you need to do to get it."  

                "Dammit, now you sound like her," Clarice said.  Her voice became high-pitched and mocking.  "'People like you always get what they want.  Cops always get what they want.'  Dr. Lecter, if you know something I don't, _tell _me.  Contrary to what you may think, the FBI didn't issue me a fairy wand to wave and make it all better."  

                "No," Dr. Lecter said, unruffled.  "This is called tough love, Clarice.  It'll mean more to you if you figure it out yourself."  

                "What?" Clarice asked.  "Just tell me.  No riddles."  Privately, she thought _Thank you for reminding me about what I **didn't **like about you.  How does Erin put up with this anyway?  _

"Basic trade, Clarice, just as I said.  You once traded with me but had nothing to trade, when it came down to it.  This time, you do.  What is it you seek?"  

"Brittany's testimony," Clarice grumbled.  

"And what must you secure to get that?"

Clarice rolled her eyeballs and wished she could reach through the phone and throttle him.  Note enough to kill him.  Just enough to make him stop all this pretentious bullshit.  She had so much on the line and he wanted to play games.    

"Her cooperation.  Her liking me and trusting me, I guess."  

Dr. Lecter made an encouraging sound but did not speak.  

"Oh, hell, I know what you mean.  She said it herself, a second chance.  I'd give that to her if I could, but I _can't."  _

He was as infuriatingly calm as ever.  "Yes, you can, Clarice.   Admittedly, it's an anomaly.  Normally you would be correct.  But based on what you told me, you are not.  Not under the circumstances as they are.  You _can _win.  And at the end of the game you will not have cheated." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarice said.  

"What were you there to do, Clarice?  Your goals were more pedestrian than you think; nothing high-minded there.  But that _is _how you can win, and you're so close.  Regardless of what Rebecca DeGould does, you can win.  Even if DeGould finds her, you can win.  Actually, that might work better, if she does what I think she will.  Victory lies within your grasp."  

"Tell me how," Clarice implored. 

"By trading," Dr. Lecter said.  "It's very basic, Clarice.  It's hardly noble, although you could see it that way.  You'll be denied the status of brave warrior.  But ultimately it's just that…trading what you _have _for what you _want."  _

"_Please, _Dr. Lecter, no games."  

 He seemed not to have heard.  "You may need someone to help open a few doors, but ultimately, the power to accomplish your goals lies completely within yourself.  All that you need to do is this, Clarice:  decide how much of what you have that you're willing to sell.  I won't tell you how, Clarice.  I already have."  

"What the f-," Clarice started.  

"I'd love to chat further, Clarice, but they're boarding my flight," Dr. Lecter grinned. Even over the phone she could tell he was grinning.  "Bye."  

                The phone clicked.  Clarice put the phone down and stared out the window.  Him and his pretentious bullshit.  

                "Goddammit, Erin, you can _have _him," she said to the empty air, the subject of her disavowal more than five thousand miles away.  

                Paul exited the shower, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a towel around his neck.  It was quite different from his usual dress.  Normally he tended towards the flashy side.  He grinned at Clarice and picked up his suitbag.  

                "You look upset," he said.  "Something wrong, Clarice?"  

                "Just a phone call," she said, and shook her head.  "There's a way I can win this," she said.  "I know there is.  A friend called me."  Her fingers clawed the air in frustration.  "Something I can do…something I can _trade_…and get what I want."  

                Paul seemed interested.  "Well, then," he said.  "You just got to find out what that is, then."  

                Clarice let out a pained sigh.  "That's the problem, Paul," she said.  "I don't know." 


	23. Breakthroughs

                The van jounced and jostled along.  In the driver's seat, Lieutenant Beck piloted the van easily.  His large gut pressed against the steering wheel, making him look like a large water balloon forced into a too-small container.  In the passenger seat, Rebecca DeGould sat trim and neat, her legs crossed.  A hard, calculating expression colored her face.  She was consulting a file.  In the back, Brittany Tollman sat silent and defeated.  Her arms were cuffed in front of her and attached to a waist chain.  Her ankles were chained as well.  She had not spoken a word since they had come for her.  

                "I still don't see how this is going to work," Beck said easily.  "How can you claim Starling is Tollman if we're putting Tollman back in prison?"  

                DeGould eyed him with some distaste.  His task wasn't to question her; it was to do as she said, when she said it.  Perhaps he wasn't the best man for the job after all.  Things were _not _going well.  Starling was still free, and she'd gotten her hands on Brittany.  Brittany had sworn that she hadn't told her anything, but that Starling knew DeGould was her tormentor.  

                Just in case, she was covering all bases.  

                "First off," DeGould said irritably, "don't question me.  I know what I'm doing.  But I'll give you this one.  We're putting Brittany back in prison so that Starling doesn't have her.  This is the one place Starling _can't _get at her, no matter what.  We'll keep her stashed away in Satellite Psych.  Make sure she's good and doped up, so that Starling can't get anything out of her if she interviews her."  

                Beck sighed.  "Look," he said.  "I know we gotta keep her away from Starling.  But according to the records, Starling _is _her.  How do you put Brittany Tollman in prison twice?"  

                DeGould grinned coldly.  "Starling isn't going back to prison," she said enigmatically.  "I just want to arrest her."  Cloth rustled as she turned in her seat to observe the despondent, shackled woman in the back.  "You never know, Brittany.  Once all this is done, I _may _yet decide to have mercy on you.  Perhaps once Starling is out of the way I'll give you an opportunity to beg me for mercy."  She chuckled coldly.    It was clear from her face that she found the idea of someone begging her for mercy to be great fun.  

                Brittany Tollman let out a shuddering sigh, the most noise she had made since they had come for her.  She wanted to put her face in her hands, but her restraints did not allow for that.  Miss DeGould had yelled at her before, when they'd loaded her in the van.  _I can't believe this crap, Brittany.  I gave you a second chance and you let Starling get a hold of you?  I never should have wasted my time on you, you stupid little bitch.  Well, you blew this one but good.  I'm taking you back to Bedford Hills.  _

She should have taken her chances with Miss Starling.  But it was too late for that.  She wondered silently along with Beck what Miss DeGould meant to do to Starling if she wasn't going to put her back in prison.  The other woman did not disappoint her.  

                "Well," DeGould said calmly, "one of two things.  If I can get her arrested, I'll take care of her myself in transit.  She'll never make it back to prison."  She chuckled coldly.  "Shot while trying to escape.  Happens a lot, doesn't it?"  She turned again and observed her captive with pleasure.  "If I get ahold of her _myself_, then I'll just blow her head off and be done with it."  

                Beck swallowed and glanced over at her cautiously.  "Killing an FBI agent?  Isn't that…risky?"  

                DeGould shook her head and smirked.  "No," she said.  "I'll kill her buddy, too, whoever he is.  I'll get her FBI ID and her gun.  Then, when they fingerprint her corpse, she'll just be Brittany Tollman, an escaped felon."  Her painted lips curved up in a cold smile.  

                Brittany shuddered in the back seat.  DeGould chuckled.  

                "Oh, Brittany, does that make you nervous?" Rebecca DeGould trilled in a bitchy-sweet tone.  "It shouldn't.  The day I put two bullets into Clarice Starling's head will be a _very _good day for you.  It's at that point that I'll see if you can grovel your way out of this.  Until then, it's home sweet home for you."  

                Brittany Tollman wanted to say something flip, but found she couldn't.  At the beginning of this, she had held nothing but gratitude towards her benefactor.  More and more, she had become frightened of her.  Now she hung her head and realized just how evil Rebecca DeGould was.  

                _Clarice Starling wouldn't have done this to me, _she thought miserably, and tears welled to her eyes.  She didn't want Kiera to be recaptured.  She still didn't, and that would make what she had to suffer worth something.  But she knew that what lay ahead of her would be filled with pain and prison, and she couldn't help but feel bad for herself.  

                They'd been traveling for several hours and she'd been in chains all that time.  Sometimes if it was a long trip they'd give you a break and let you stretch.  But she couldn't bring herself to ask Miss DeGould; it would simply be an opportunity for the woman to laugh in her face.  

                The high walls of the prison loomed overhead, and Brittany turned away, a lump growing in her throat.  She was going back.  As the van trundled in, she withdrew into herself as much as she could.  

                Readmission was much the same as admission had been.  They photographed her, took her clothes away, and gave her a prison jumpsuit.  She put it back on.  _That _was much harder than she thought it would be, having to surrender her free-world clothing in exchange for a prison jumpsuit.  It was surrendering her second chance.  She was a prisoner again.  She'd thought they would send her to the Reception Center, but instead, the guard processing her back in checked something on a clipboard and handed it to Lieutenant Beck.  

                "There you go," the guard said disinterestedly.  "Satellite Psych is waiting for her.  They got a suicide-watch cell all ready for her."  He grinned at her with casual malice.  

                She paused.  Satellite Psych was the psychiatric center where crazy inmates were kept.  She wouldn't be part of the prison itself.  It was strictly separate from the rest of the prison.  

                But they took her down there and handed her off to another guard.  That guard made her surrender her jumpsuit and gave her a suicide gown – a thick, heavy nylon garment that could not be folded or twisted into a noose.  It had no sleeves.  Velcro straps at the shoulder secured it.  She did not get shoes.  It was long and she tripped on the hem.  He escorted her to the suicide-watch row.  

Here, another guard sat calmly at a desk, reading a magazine.  In front of him was a row of cells containing those inmates who, like her, had tried to end their lives.  Every few minutes he would put down his magazine and scan the row.  Once satisfied that nothing had changed, he returned to reading. 

                The isolation cells had plexiglass walls.  They were tiny, even tinier than the solitary cell she had occupied before DeGould set her free.  Each cell contained a thin plastic mattress, a steel toilet and sink combination, and nothing else except the prisoner confined therein.  Dogs at the pound got about as much space, Brittany thought.    

                It was noisy.  A few of them banged on the wall when they saw Brittany approach.  Some of them were in four-point restraints, spread-eagled as if offered up to the cruel gods that must rule places like this.  Some had jumpsuits.  Some wore suicide gowns like hers.  And some were buck naked.  

                A white-coated doctor came up to her and examined her briefly, quizzing her on a few questions.  She answered in monosyllables, only barely aware of what she was saying.  She knew now what would happen to her; Rebecca DeGould meant to destroy her so that she could not help Clarice Starling.  At this point, she was too despondent to care about the FBI agents and their petty little battles.  She had her own problems.  

                The doctor gave her a shot and then gestured at the cell door with his thumb.  The guard unlocked the door and pushed her inside.  The heavy steel door slammed behind her and made her jump.  She'd better get used to it.  

                There was nothing at all in the cell.  Just a steel sink and toilet, a plastic mattress, and Brittany.  In the part of her mind that was still functional, she realized how clever it was.  In the prison itself, she might be able to call Starling and beg for a second chance.  Here, she couldn't.  She would simply be captive here until she lost her mind permanently.  

                _Make Auntie Rebecca angry, _her mind reminded her, _and you'll spend the rest of your life in a little concrete box that'll make the prisons you came from seem like Disneyland.  _  And now that had come true.  She was lost.  

                Brittany Tollman lay down on the plastic mattress and drew her knees up inside the thick smock.  The rough ballistic nylon of the suicide gown was unpleasant, but better than the plastic mattress sticking to her skin. The shot of haloperidol she had been given began to kick in.  It was a large dose, designed to ensure she kept quiet and did not create a ruckus for her keepers.  Tears welled in her eyes.  She'd had a second chance…and lost it all.    

                Then the drug took effect, and she couldn't think any more.  

                …

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter was in a rather good mood as he walked towards the long-term-parking lot of the airport.  Clarice had been rather stroppy about the deal.  But she would figure it out; she was a clever girl.  Once she did, she'd kick herself for not realizing it sooner.  

                And the chance to see her again had been worth it.  It had been years.  He did love his wife, but he would always have a special place in his heart for Clarice.  Of course, the humor in seeing her in a prison cell was not lost on him.  But she was out now.  And she would figure out what he meant.  

                He had strolled through customs with nary a hassle, equipped with a false British passport of the best Brazilian manufacture.  They might think of him as a pommy.  That was just fine with the doctor.   They could think 'pommy' all they liked, as long as they stamped the passport and let him into the country. Once he had cleared customs he slipped through the airport, retrieved his bag, and headed back to his wife and son with a jaunty step.  It was midnight and the flight had been long, but that did not matter.

                The Jaguar moved nicely along the highway.  Dr. Lecter found himself in a rare good mood.  If there was only one thing he regretted, it was that Clarice would not be able to see him in Australia.  He had always wanted, one day, to have Erin and Clarice at the same table.  He was quite content here.  

                Dr. Lecter pulled his car into his driveway and glanced around the house.  The cars were all here.  That was odd; Erin usually had surgery.  Perhaps she'd stayed home with Michael.   Sunni was their usual sitter, but she wasn't always available.  

                The front door pushed open at his touch.  _That _made him wary.  Erin normally insisted on keeping the doors locked.  He agreed; it was better to keep the detective at bay.  He frowned and proceeded further into the house.  

                "Erin?  Michael?" he called out.  

                No voice greeted him.  No footsteps came to welcome him.  The mansion on the water seemed desolate and alone.  There was no one here.  

                Dr. Lecter tilted his head and felt misgivings.  

                In the kitchen was greater cause for concern.  Normally the kitchen was kept quite tidy.  Now the counter was strewn with debris.  On the floor were several splotches of blood.  In the corner was a chef's knife.  Blood marred its blade.  Dr. Lecter stared at that for a long time, a look of utter seriousness on his face.  In one corner was a child's footprint stamped in blood.  

                Dr. Lecter bared his teeth and sat down hard.  After all these years, after all his victims…now _he _was one.  His wife and son were missing.  There were signs of a struggle.  The Cannibal Killer of Sydney had found them.  

                For a moment, he felt his heart race and he forced himself to sit and breathe until he calmed down.  Then he was able to examine the situation critically.  He had to settle down.  Stay calm.  He could do this; he'd done it before. 

                A phone call to the local police station was next.  Dr. Lecter pretended to be an attorney responding to a call. The sergeant on duty was most helpful.  No one with the last name of Litton or Lander had been arrested.  No woman from Watson's Bay, either.  That didn't surprise him.  This was a wealthy part of town.  No, Erin was not in the hands of the authorities.  

                He picked up the knife and examined it critically.  There was a bag of flour in the cupboard, and Dr. Lecter gently dusted some on the blade.  He did not intend to fingerprint it and did not care whose fingerprints came up on the handle.  Instead, he simply looked at the size of the prints.  A small hand. Erin's.  

                Had someone forced his way in?  Dr. Lecter did not think this was so.  His reason was simple.  The manse was built for security.  The windows were bulletproof glass and built of heavy metal frames.  The door itself was very difficult to penetrate.  Fugitives know better than most about security, and Dr. Lecter and his wife were no exception.  The home was their refuge.  No, no one _could _have forced their way into the house without needing a bulldozer.  

                That ruled out street punks or other criminals.  Erin would have known better than to open the door for them.  Nor would she have opened it for a stranger at all.  The years as a fugitive had made her cautious.  She would have been doubly so without him there.  No, it was someone she knew.  

                If Erin knew the Cannibal Killer in his normal identity…what did _that _mean?  

                Dr. Lecter moved swiftly.  He gathered up some items.  The telephone book gave him Isabelle Pierce's address in Parramatta.  He called it from a pay phone and let the phone ring.  Just to make sure, he called the hospital, pretending to be a police lieutenant.  Isabelle Pierce was sleeping in the hospital.  She would be released tomorrow.  

                Perfect.  Dr. Lecter drove to Parramatta and entered the apartment building calmly.  The door yielded to his lockpicks and he was inside.  He was icy cold now, focused on his mission.  This was what he _had _to do.  

                Isabelle Pierce's apartment was neat and tidy.  Dr. Lecter entered and carefully searched her office until he found what he wanted.  The Cannibal Killer file.  He was able to find an all-night copy shop that catered to students.  That provided him with a copy of the file.  He returned to the apartment and silently returned the file to whence he had found it.  Then he locked up the apartment again and left.  

                Home again, home again.  Dr. Lecter sat down on his couch and carefully read the file.  The Cannibal Killer kept his victims alive for a few days.  That was good.  He looked at the police report that Detective Pierce had filed on the killer leaving haggis in her car and paused.  Haggis?  

                Dr. Lecter's mind was not measurable by mortal man, and as he reviewed the file ideas occurred to him that no one else would have been able to grasp.  By the time he was done, it was three o'clock in the morning.  But in that time he had found out what Isabelle Pierce had been working for weeks to discover.  He knew the identity of the Cannibal Killer.  

                His first urge was to go and capture him himself.  His wife and son depended on him.  Then another idea occurred to him – one he rather liked.  This could take care of both the problems of the killer and the detective all at one fell swoop.  And it would only take a few extra hours.  

                Dr. Lecter went up to his study and gathered his implements.  Then he grabbed a few other things.  A white lab coat.  His wife's identification from the hospital she worked in.  A black doctor's bag and a stethoscope.  He draped the stethoscope around his neck as he had seen his wife do.  He clipped her identification to his lapel, twisting it around so that her picture was covered.  

                The disguise served to get him into the hospital without question.  He walked calmly through the hospital, navigating easily to the patient-care ward where Isabelle Pierce was kept.  The nurse in charge of the ward eyed him carefully, but she did not question him.  He was a doctor, after all.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter glanced into the room.  One bed was empty.  In the other, Isabelle Pierce slept peacefully.  She reminded him vaguely of Clarice.  Unfortunately, she had the same dogged persistence that her American counterpart did.  No matter.  He closed the door behind him and extracted a syringe.  The needle jetted its clear contents silently into her IV.  

                Now he was ready to take care of both the detective and the Cannibal Killer.  

                …

                Clarice was frustrated.  Dr. Lecter's phone call weighed heavily on her mind as she headed back to the psychiatric hospital.  What the hell was he talking about?  What did she have to trade?  She had to think of _something.  _Not a day went by that she didn't think about Ardelia.  

She'd gotten something good, though.  A golfing buddy of Pearsall's at the federal Bureau of Prisons had agreed to pull some strings and get Brittany in Alderson Work Camp, a federal minimum-security prison in West Virginia.  That amused Clarice personally.  It was somehow fitting to move Brittany from DeGould's home turf to hers.  

Paul would have to formally arrest her, but that was just fine.  As long as she was in federal custody, New York would have to fight to get her back.  If they wanted her back that bad they could fight it out in court.  In the meantime, Brittany would have the additional freedoms that a minimum-security facility offered.  That would give her an incentive to help.  

                So now Clarice had _something.  _Dr. Lecter and his '_you ask her to give you everything and you offer her 'maybes' and 'we'll try' in response?'_ could go stick it where the sun didn't shine.  She had something real to offer Brittany.    Alderson wasn't fun, but it was minimum security.  So long as the kid minded her manners she'd be fine for the time being.  

                Paul was quiet as he drove.  He drove fast, the way a man will when he knows he can flash a badge and get out of tickets.  That reminded her of one thing she still _did _have – her Mustang.  A flying chunk of debris had taken out the back window, but the car itself was OK.  She'd have to get it fixed once all this was over.  

                At the hospital, Clarice went up to the window just as she had before.  She checked her weapon just as she had before.  And she asked for Brittany, just as she had before.  

                The receptionist looked down at her computer screen and her mouth quirked.  That _hadn't _happened before.  

                "Hmmm," she said thoughtfully.  "Brittany _Miller _is the patient you want to see?"  

                Clarice nodded.  "I visited her the other day," she said.  

                The receptionist adopted a puzzled look and tapped a key.  

                "She's no longer a patient here," she said dubiously.  

                Clarice felt a wave of fear in her stomach.  "She…she _what?"  _

"She was transferred," the receptionist said.  "To…wait a minute…here we are. To the New York Department of Corrections.  Lieutenant David Beck."  She looked up at Clarice and shrugged.  

                Clarice felt her stomach wrench again and put her hands on the counter.  "No," she said.  "No, that can't be right.  It's a different state.  She should've had an extradition hearing."  

                The receptionist shrugged.   "I'm sorry," she said.  "They came here and she signed some papers…let's see, here's your extradition waiver right here."  She consulted a file and handed Clarice a form.  Brief and to the point, it acknowledged that Brittany was voluntarily waiving her right to extradition and voluntarily returning to the custody of the New York Department of Corrections.  Her signature was right there for Clarice to see. 

                The form did not offer Clarice much comfort.  "Look," she said.  "She tried to commit suicide a few days ago.  She is _not _competent to make that decision.  You never should have let her sign it.  This is a freaking _psychiatric _hospital.  People are here because they can't make decisions for themselves."  

                The receptionist appeared miffed.  "She was a voluntary patient," she said defensively.  "Besides, Agent Barton, she's _not here.  _They came and got her this morning.  If you want to complain about it, you'll have to take it up with them.  They have legal custody of her."  

                The world seemed to whirl and spin.  Things had been looking up.  She'd gotten something she could offer Brittany.  She might've been able to eke out a victory here.  But now…what the hell was she supposed to do now?  

                She stumbled out to the lobby.  For a moment she thought she might faint.  Rebecca DeGould had Brittany.  Was Brittany really back in New York DOC?  Or was DeGould holding her somewhere quietly?  

If she was, then Clarice was pretty damn well sunk.  She might get back to her life herself, but Ardelia was lost.  

                Paul was sitting in the lobby with a copy of _Time _magazine.  He glanced up at Clarice.  He noticed her pallor and her shaky stance.  His brow furrowed.  

                "Is something wrong?" he asked.  "You look kind of peaky."  

                Clarice swallowed and stared at him for several moments.  

                "DeGould got her," she blurted.  

                He tilted his head and stared at her curiously for a minute or two.  

                "How the hell did she do that?" he asked.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "I don't know," she rasped.  Then she moved to sit down before her knees gave out on her.  

                "Doesn't change much," he observed.  "You've still got your fingerprint card.  We can get you back into the FBI whenever we want."  

                Clarice wanted to scream at him for a moment.  Was he _blind?  _She forced herself to remember he was trying to help.  Several deep breaths through her nose helped.  

                "Paul," she said.  "It _does _change things for me.  Without Brittany I can't prove DeGould did anything.  And without Brittany I can't find Kiera.  No one's seen hide nor hair of her.  If I can't find Kiera I can't get Ardelia out.  I can't have Ardelia in prison!  I can't _live _like that, knowing my best friend is locked up.  And DeGould isn't going to rest.  She'll take it out on Ardelia somehow.  Probably me too."  

                "There may be other ways," he said.  "We gotta find out where Britt is, then.  If DeGould's sitting on her somewhere private, we're probably screwed."  

                Clarice thought of Ardelia trapped in that cell for the next few years.  Tears pricked her eyes.  

                "But maybe if she stuck her back in prison, maybe then we're set.  But that means something bad."  

                Clarice blinked.  "Like what?"  

                "If she stuck her back in prison," Paul advised, "then that means she doesn't want to send _you _back to prison."  

                At first Clarice had to ask why that was so bad.  After all, this would be a most effective torture: Clarice would have to live her life, knowing Ardelia was imprisoned because of her.  And she wouldn't be able to do anything about it.   She didn't have enough to arrest DeGould, not without either of her minions.  Then it occurred to her that DeGould might be cutting her losses.  

                "You think she'd try to kill me?"  Clarice whispered.  

                Paul shrugged.  "It's possible," he said.  "Or she's got some other trick up her sleeve.  Look, let's go back to the hotel room.  I got to make a few phone calls.  And I think you need something to help you relax."  

                So he drove her back to the hotel and fixed her a strong cup of coffee with a chaser of Jack Daniel's.  The combination burned her tongue a bit more than she'd expect.  But the whiskey had the desired effect of taking the edge off.  Clarice chewed on her lip and forced herself to think.  Something occurred to her oddly.  

                "You know," she said thoughtfully, "You said it didn't change much if DeGould got her.  You're not the only one who said that."  

                Paul smiled.  In the anonymity of the hotel room, they both felt safer than they had in the busy psychiatric hospital.  Even so, he looked both ways as if there might be a snooper listening in.  When he spoke, his voice was hushed.  

                "Lecter, wasn't it?"  

                Clarice paused for a moment.  Could she trust him this far?  Would he walk out on her?  

                In for a penny, in for a pound.  Better to be honest.  She nodded.  

                "I figured," he said.  "Somebody got you out of there slick as a…whistle."  She suspected he had been planning another simile and grinned.  "I've heard about you and him."  

                Clarice smiled guiltily and looked at the anonymous hotel carpet.  Then she nodded.  

                "Well," she said, "there's nothing…between me and him."  

                Paul nodded and seemed pleased.  

                "First," he said, "let's find out what we can."  He picked up the hotel room phone and dialed a number.  White teeth flashed at her in a grin as he waited.  Then the other end picked up.  

                "Yeah, hi," Paul said.  "This is Sergeant Martelli over at Albion.  How're you doing today?"  The Brooklyn accent was completely scrubbed from his voice.  Clarice tilted her head and watched him.  Damn, she wished _she _could do that with her accent.  

                He paused.  Clarice figured the other side said he was doing just fine.  For a moment she watched him, trying to think.  Albion?  Brittany had mentioned that.  It was the medium-security prison that Bedford Hills inmates hoped to be sent to.  

                "Hey, listen," he said jovially.  "Our computer system's down here.  I was wondering if you could check something out for me.  I'm trying to track down a prisoner."  

                The voice on the other end said something.  Paul grinned apologetically.  

                "Look, man, I'm really sorry to bug you," he said coaxingly.  "Anyways, this is a prisoner who's supposed to go there.  So you'd have her.   Thing is, the Feds are screaming at me cause they wanted her sent here.  They're trying to loosen her tongue a little about some federal case.  Anyways, I got some asshole from the FBI and another from the Marshal's Service screaming at me because our inmate isn't here where _they _want her.  You'd think they'd have the brains to get this shit done the _right _way, but then that's the Feds for you, right?   So if you could do a check for me and see if she's there, I'll buy you a beer next time I swing down there to pick up and drop off."  

                Another pause.  

                "Thanks, man, you're great.  Name is Brittany Tollman.  T-O-L-L-M-A-N.  Lemme give you her DIN number, too."  He quoted a number that meant nothing to Clarice.

                He looked a bit surprised.  "Sat Psych?  Why is that?"     

                Clarice watched him play out his role and grinned.  

                "Oh, OK.  Well, the Feds won't like it, but the Feds can deal, right?  Hey, thanks a million, my friend, you've helped me out of a jam.  Yeah.  Yeah, great.  No, I'll tell 'em, they can deal.  Thanks again.  G'bye."  

                He hung up and looked at Clarice quite seriously.      

                 "Brittany Tollman was checked back into the Satellite Psych Center two hours ago," he said.  "That's the psych center they have on site for crazy cons.  On suicide watch."  

                Clarice closed her eyes and thought.  An insane asylum, right there for those prisoners who lost their minds.  How convenient.

                "So not only is she back in New York DOC," she said, "but they can keep us from seeing her."  

                Paul nodded.  "Not _only _that," he said, "but it means that DeGould isn't going to try and put you back in prison.  You gotta be careful.  God only knows what she's decided to do instead."  

                Clarice nodded.  

                "What I gotta do," she said, "is figure out what the hell I need to do to win this.  There _is _something."  

                Paul observed her casually.  

                "Lecter told you that, did he?"  

                Clarice sighed and nodded.  "I suppose you don't approve, Paul, but the guy is _not _a liar."  

                Paul took a moment before replying.  His heavy face was solemn as he thought.  

                "It's not that I don't approve," he said.  "I had something like that happen to me, once.  Ever heard of Vinnie Clemenza?"  

                Clarice thought for a moment.  "The mobster?"  

                Paul nodded.  "That's him. Clobber Clemenza, they called him.  He was known for beating up guys with baseball bats.  Doin life in prison over at Marion now."  

                "I heard of him," Clarice said.  

                "Well, before he went down, he knew I was FBI.   He was always…polite, I guess.  He stuck to the program.  You don't kill cops no matter what."  

                Clarice nodded.  La Cosa Nostra wasn't her strong point, but she'd heard of them.

                "Vinnie Clemenza committed at least twenty murders that we know of.  I think he's got your cannibal doc pal there beat.  Vicious, nasty guy.  But one day, he'd heard that some punks on the street who were running a crank operation were gonna take me out and try and pin it on his Family.  So…I'm at home one night, watching TV.  Knock comes on my door.  I go and check it out, right?  Sitting right on my doorstep is Vinnie Clemenza.  I mean, the guy is Cosa Nostra to the core.  They said his family's influence ran all the way – cops, politicians, hell, he knew someone in the governor's office.  Nothing ever stuck to anyone.   But he'd make a call and stuff happened.  I was just a grunt FBI agent at the time, no rank.  But here he is, one of the main men, at my front door."  He chuckled ruefully, remembering.  

                "What did he say?"  Clarice asked, grinning.  

                "Heh.  Just what I told you.  'Agent DaSilva, there's some guys running around.  They're trying to clip you and pin it on us.  We don't hold for that.  We stick to the contracts.  Here's the evidence I have.'  And he gave me pictures, and tapes, and all that!"  Paul chuckled at the memory.  "Then he says, 'Oh, and call the city bomb squad, there's a stick of dynamite taped to your ignition'.  There was, too!"    He smiled.  "He asked me to testify at his sentencing hearing."  

                Clarice grinned.  "Did you?"  

                He nodded.  "I says, hey, listen, sure I'll say what you did.  I don't know what good it'll do; you're up on twenty murder charges.  But I'll go to bat for you, sure.  And I did.  And it didn't do squats, but I did it.  Fair trade."  He shook his head ruefully.  "Trading for Clemenza.  Who'd have thought?"  

                Clarice thought for a moment.  And then it happened.  

                There are times that one may puzzle over a riddle for hours.  Then, a sudden flash of insight strikes, and everything changes. The landscape of the problem is unrecognizable.  It is the same in every detail; nothing has moved, but the pattern is clear now and it is obvious.  

                Such a moment occurred to Clarice Starling as her mind wandered aimlessly back over Paul DaSilva's story.  The powerful flash of insight burst through her mind, powerful enough that for a moment she sat there and stared blankly as if struck dumb.  

                "Oh…my …GOD," Clarice Starling said.  "That's _it._"  She glanced at Paul, and a look like rapture spread over her face like cool water.  "You're a genius, Paul."  

                Paul DaSilva gave her a quizzical look.  

                "He's right," Clarice whispered, and snickered.  "Oh, my GOD.  It's so…so simple.   And it doesn't matter _what _DeGould does.  If I can pull this off…and I think I can…I can win no matter what."  

                She groped over him for the telephone.  The first number she called was Senator Allstyne.  The Senator asked about the rumors of her death.  Clarice explained to her that she had been undercover.  

                "Senator," Clarice said pleasantly, "I'm calling you for a reason.  I need to talk to someone, and I think you could help me with that.  Would you be willing to help me?"  

                The Senator's surprisingly deep voice considered her and found her worthy of help.  "Of course, Agent Starling.  I am _so _pleased with the results of the Prison Project.  Now when will you be submitting your report?"  

                "Very shortly," Clarice assured her.  "I just have some things I need to take care of."  She explained briefly what it was she sought.  The Senator considered.  

                "That's a bit of an odd request," she said.  

                "I know," Clarice said.  "And Senator, I _assure _you I wouldn't be asking if it weren't _very _important."  

                "Agent Starling, may I say something?" 

                "Of course, Senator," Clarice said promptly.

                "There are times in your life you'll need to grovel.  This isn't one of those times.  Your request is a little offbeat, but it's not like you're asking the earth.  I'll be happy to see what I can do.  May I get a number where I can reach you back?"  

                Clarice rattled off the hotel room number.  

                "_Very _well, Agent Starling.  Let me make a few phone calls and call you back in fifteen minutes.  All right?"  

                Clarice fought the urge to say _Yes, your Majesty_ mightily.  True to her word, the Senator called her back fifteen minutes later.  She brought Clarice into a conference call with a third party and then a fourth. 

                And in the end, it was just as Dr. Lecter had said.  Simple trade.  Senator Allstyne was able to open the doors for Clarice, but in the end, Clarice spoke with whom she needed to speak to.  She explained what she wanted and what she could offer.  The other party was amenable to a deal, and the whole thing was wrapped up in less than fifteen minutes.  Clarice made a few more phone calls.  This time her request was more workaday and common, and the parties she spoke to now were perfectly happy to give her what she wanted when she explained what she had to offer.  

                Less than half an hour later, the deal was done.   She had to run out to Staples and pick up a cheap fax machine to get the paperwork, but even that was not too hard.  As the papers that spelled out her final victory spilled out of the machine onto the desk, she sighed.  DeGould would never expect _this.  _

                Clarice sighed with pleasure.  She would _win.  _She flopped herself back against the bed and eyed Paul with gusto.  For his part, he simply raised his eyebrows and acknowledged her victory with good faith.  

                "Goddam," Paul said.  "I _never _thought I'd see something like that wrapped up so quickly."  

                Clarice grinned.  "I know," she said.  

                "You're not out of the woods _yet," _Paul pointed out.  

                "No, but I'm a lot better off than I was," Clarice said.  "See…now things are different. Now it's in everyone's self-interest to help me."  She grinned widely.  

                "So shall we get going?"  Paul asked.  

                Clarice shook her head.  "Better to wait for shift change at Bedford Hills," she said enigmatically.  Then she offered Paul a sly grin.  "Besides…I want to celebrate."  

                "Okay," Paul said instantly.  "Wanna go out to eat?"  

                Clarice's grin became hungrier.  Victory elated her.  "Nope," she said, and lunged for him.   Then thoughts of Rebecca DeGould and her tormentors vanished from her mind.  His lips were warm on hers.  Then she was fumbling for his buttons, carefully putting his pistol down, and they were moving over to the bed in a tangled mass of legs and arms.  

                Two hours later, she was finally sated.  Lying against him, her skin warm against his, she tangled her bare legs in the bedsheets and played with the clocksprings of hair on his chest.  Paul gave her a wry grin.  

                "Damn, Clarice," was all he said.  

                Clarice smiled, unrepentant.  "Hey," she said lazily.  "A girl gets lonely in the joint."  

                "So are we putting off work until tomorrow?" he asked.  

                Clarice shook her head.  "We'll leave in a couple of hours," she said.  "But for now…I'm not _quite _finished."  


	24. Building Bridges

                _Author's note: Yes, this is a long one.  But here we are, Dear Reader._

Clarice glanced over the fences and barbed wire of Bedford Hills and sighed.  She had never dreamed that she would ever, _ever _come back here.  Once she'd escaped, she'd thought that would be it.  She had never thought she would be here again.  Yet here she was, driving into the prison.  Night had already fallen, throwing the prison into sharp contrast.  Dark fences and buildings were cut apart by bright lights.  

                She wasn't here as a prisoner.  She was here as an FBI agent.  In lieu of a prison uniform she had a neat pants suit and an attaché case.  Her handcuffs were on her belt, not her wrists. That didn't make it any easier.  If anything, she thought, this whole experience had changed her.  Before, she'd always been inclined to dismiss prisoners without a second thought.  They were the bad guys; they'd gotten caught.  

                Now she knew better.  There were so many shades of gray.   Not everyone who was a prisoner was a bad guy.  Not everyone in a uniform was a good guy.    And yes, she would admit, the system made mistakes sometimes. 

                Clarice checked in with the guard at the gate and got directions to where she needed to go.  Her rental car purred through the maze to the small building away from the main prison.  She pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car.  Her headlights splashed onto a plain, battered sign that announced this was the _SATELLITE PSYCHIATRIC CENTER.  _

Thought of Dr. Lecter came into her head.  But no, Brittany was not here because she was a danger to anyone else.  She was here because she was a danger to herself.  Perhaps Clarice could reach some common ground.  She certainly had a reason to reach Brittany now.

                Inside, the facility was dim and grotesque.  The only light came from fluorescent bulbs that hurt her eyes.  She checked in at the main desk and checked her weapon.  She doubted that she would need it.  The woman at the desk eyed her distrustfully.  Federal agents were akin to occupiers at many state prison systems these days.  They were disliked, but they were feared all the same, and they had to be obeyed.  

                In a way, Clarice found that amusing.  The prison guards thought of the Feds the same way their prisoners thought of them.  None of them seemed to realize that, either.  

                "There's a visiting room over there, Agent Starling," the woman said dully.  "We'll bring her right out to you."  

                Clarice shook her head.  "I'll go to her," she said.  "I want to see where you're keeping her.  And what conditions you're keeping the others in."  

                The woman seemed alarmed.  "But…Agent Starling, there are no visitors allowed back there.  It's dangerous."  

                "I can handle myself," Clarice said.  "Now, either I go back there or I don't, but if I don't, then I'll be having a chat with the Department of Justice when I return."  

                The woman seemed flustered.  _Hiding something, are we? _Clarice thought.  "Okay, okay," she said suddenly.  "Just have a seat, it'll be just a bit.  We have to secure the block."  

                Clarice smiled coolly and shook her head.  "No," Clarice said.  "It'll be five minutes or so until you call down a guard to bring me down there.  Otherwise, I'll assume you're hiding something you don't want me to see."  

                The woman let out a sigh and decided that apparently this problem was beyond her pay scale.  "Very well, Agent Starling," she said heavily.  She called down a guard who stared with disattached annoyance at Clarice.  Federal agents were not popular at state prisons these days.  The guard nodded when she told him who she wanted to see and gestured for her to follow him.

                She'd thought before that the things she had seen in the prison were dark and evil.  Some people deserved this treatment, some did not.  She knew both sides, and she wasn't about to become a liberal yet.  But here, in this psychiatric center, they were supposed to be helping the inmates.  Instead, Clarice thought, it was as bad or worse.  

                It was nighttime, and the place was quieting down a bit.  Inmates lay limp and unmoving in their cells, their demons soothed by overwhelming medication.  Or, Clarice thought, it made them easier to handle. That seemed more likely. She stared at the poor souls locked in tiny cells. Some were dressed, some were naked.  The menace she had felt at Chesapeake was absent.  In here was simply misery.

                Clarice closed her eyes and felt a wave of regret.  This, simply put, was wrong.  No one deserved this.  

                Brittany Tollman was in a cell halfway down the hall.  She wore one of the heavy gowns and had crammed herself into the corner of her cell in a tiny ball, as if taking up the least amount of space possible might offer her some type of comfort.  The bandages on her wrists were the only other things she wore.  

                Clarice gestured at the cell door.  "Open it," she told the guard.  

                The guard sighed and complied.  "There," he said.   He went back to his chair and flopped down with a sigh as if he had just built the railroad single-handedly.  Down the hall, a woman banged on her cell door and asked for toilet paper.  The guard paid her no heed.  

                "Get her some toilet paper," Clarice said.  

                "In a minute," the guard yawned.  

                Clarice sighed.  "_Now," _she said.  "Goddam it, this place is in enough trouble already.  Show some goddam decency."  

                The guard gave her a dirty look, but he got up and went over to the closet.  Clarice pushed open the door and entered the cell.  Brittany glanced up at her and let out a wordless sigh.  She began to study the ground between her bare feet.  Clarice sat down on the floor herself.  She pushed her briefcase away and pulled her knees up, mimicking Brittany's posture in a more comfortable manner.  

                "Can't you leave me alone?" Brittany asked plaintively.  "Isn't this enough for you?"  

                Clarice watched the other woman carefully.  To expect Brittany _not _to be upset would be foolish.  Coming back to Bedford Hills was vaguely disconcerting for Clarice, coming as a federal agent.  For Brittany, it had to be hell on earth.  

                Still, her timing had been good.  Brittany could talk, which meant that whatever dope they had been running into her had worn off.  If they came and tried to medicate her again, Clarice could run them off. 

                "I'm not here to make things tougher on you," Clarice said sympathetically.  

                "No.  You're here to make me give up Kiera.  I won't." Brittany said defiantly. 

                Clarice shook her head.  

                "I know," she said.  "You're here for the next twenty years anyway, so it doesn't matter.  Unless your sentence is commuted by the governor."  

                Brittany chuckled sourly.  "Yeah, right," she said.  Acid bitterness scarred her tone.  "_That'll _happen when monkeys fly out of my butt.  I'm not giving you Kiera.  I don't care what you do to me." 

"I can see that," Clarice said.  "Whatever charges I pile on your head couldn't really mean a whole lot, right?"  

                Brittany sighed.  "Oh, just do it and get it over with," she said crossly.    

"Actually," Clarice said calmly, "no.  I came here to talk to you about _your _case."                 

                Brittany gave her a blank look.  "_My case?"  _

                "Your case."  

                Brittany sighed.  "I don't _have _a case," she said.  "I was sentenced.  I've been here five years.  There's no retrials, no court date.  It's done."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "So it won't hurt any if I have a look in your file," she said.  From the briefcase she extracted a thick manila folder.  She opened it and began to page through it.  

                "Let's see," she said.  "Your boyfriend pretty much kidnapped you out of your apartment in Miami.  You weren't involved in any of the robberies down South.  He did those all himself.  You were locked in the car.  An eyewitness saw you in the car in Charleston, South Carolina.  He tied you up and left you in the backseat while he robbed a convenience store, didn't he?  By the time the cops got out there he was gone along with you."  

                Brittany shuddered.  Clarice continued.  

                "When they found you, your gun had blanks, and your shoulder was dislocated.  Store security cameras showed that.  You also had some pretty bad bruises.  He must've been pretty rough on you."  

                Brittany's eyes wet with angry tears.  "He was on crank," she grumbled.  "Why are you rubbing my face in this, Starling?  Why do you have to be such a sadistic bitch?  When has someone suffered enough for you people?"  

                Clarice swallowed.  _Let it go, _she told herself, _She's despairing, that's all.   _

"I'm not being a sadistic bitch.  That's DeGould. Let me finish."  Her tone was quiet but firm.  

                Brittany retreated into bitter silence.  

                "The first robbery you participated in was in Maryland.  A week or so after it all started.  The robbery in New York that they caught you for, the camera showed _you _didn't shoot the cop – your boyfriend did.  They got you and you offered right off to testify against him.  Your public D didn't even approach the fact that you'd been kidnapped and beaten, which was amazingly stupid of him."

                Brittany sighed.  "You ain't telling me anything I haven't thought about every day for the past five years," she said.  "_No one cares.  _I don't get any more chances in court."  

                Clarice nodded sympathetically.  "I know," she said.  Then she scootched forward and put her hand on Brittany's arm.  

                "Brittany, I look in this file and I don't see that you should have been convicted of first-degree murder," she said.  "The evidence doesn't point to it.  The evidence points to you being a battered woman who was terrorized into doing what her boyfriend wanted."  

                "Nothing to be done for it," Brittany repeated.  "Nobody cares.  And all you want is your friend anyway."    

                Clarice shook her head.  "That's not what I came here for," she said.  "Look, I know what you think.  I'm a cop, so I don't care.  There's people like you, and then there's people like me."  

                "Least you admit it now," Brittany said, staring fixedly between her feet.  

                "Well," Clarice said.  "That's not totally true.  The whole reason I went undercover into prison was to make sure prisoners weren't being abused.  This was a whole project.  It wasn't just me.  Agents were put into prisons all over the country.  Our job was to witness and report back what we saw.  To recommend changes and file charges."  

                Brittany eyed Clarice over her knees with disdain.  

                "Like _anything _would change," she said spitefully.  "You did this so some Senator could make a speech."  

                Clarice sighed.  "Brittany," she said, "I know it's been tough on you.  But could you give me a chance here?"  

                "I didn't get one," Brittany pointed out archly.  

                "Actually, that's not as true as you think," Clarice said.  "How about letting me finish?" 

                "Fine," Brittany said crossly.  

                Clarice nodded.  She could understand to a point, but Brittany's oppositional behavior was beginning to get to her.  Fortunately, she'd be shutting up fairly shortly.  

                "Thank you," she said archly, letting her displeasure color her tone instead of her words.  "Now then.  As I was saying, I looked at this file, and I have some real questions as to whether or not you should have been convicted of first-degree murder."  

                Brittany clearly wanted to say something snide, but held her tongue.  Good.  

                "Now let me ask you, Brittany.  Suppose I _could _help you somehow?  Something that was real and measurable.  Not empty promises.  No bullshit.  You jumped me when DeGould offered you a second chance.  Clocked me with a bar of soap and walked out in my place.  Would you be willing to switch sides if I could do that?"    

                Brittany's shoulders slumped.  "You can't get me out of here," she said.  "Besides, you want Kiera and I won't--," 

                "Brittany," Clarice said, cutting her off firmly, "that's not what I asked.  I asked if you'd turn on DeGould for me.  If I could get you a second chance.  Just theoretically."  

                "But it ain't--," Brittany started again.  

                "Theoretical question, Brittany.  Yes or no.  Forget Kiera, I know you won't give her up.  She's your friend.  In your position I'd only hope I could be strong enough to do what you're doing.  Answer the question I asked, Brittany.  If I could get you a second chance, would you give me Rebecca DeGould?"  

                Brittany pressed herself further into the concrete wall and hunched her shoulders.  She eyed Starling with angry helplessness for a few minutes.  She set her jaw and pondered.  

                "You'd have to get me out of here," Brittany said, her tone low.  "Period.  While I'm here I'm a sitting duck for her. New York is her turf.  All she has to do is make a phone call."  

                _Don't **I **know that, kiddo, _Clarice Starling thought.  

                "So you would?" she probed.  

                Brittany closed her eyes and let out a defeated breath through her nostrils.  "Yes," she said finally.  

                Clarice smiled.  "Good," she said briskly.  "I'm glad you said that, Brittany."  She cleared her throat.   "I know what you think.  But I _do _care.  And I'm willing to show you some proof."  She reached over for her briefcase and withdrew a single sheet of paper.  

                "I've been on the phone with state authorities for a bit on your behalf," she said.  "Also drove to Albany from Harrisburg and back down here.   As of six PM today, the governor of New York State has given you a full and unconditional pardon."  With a flourish, she handed the sheet of paper to the other woman.   The seal of New York State was visible in the watermark, even in the dim light of the isolation cell.  

                Brittany Tollman's eyes bulged.  Shaking hands gripped the paper.   She looked from the paper to the FBI agent and back.  Clarice found the look of outright shock on her face slightly amusing.  She simply held her tongue, enjoying the moment.  

                "Want some toilet paper for those monkeys?" Clarice asked, her mouth quirking in a grin.

                "But…but…but…," Brittany stuttered.  

                "But what?" Clarice asked.  

                "I can't apply for a pardon," Brittany said blankly.  "There's rules about that."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "They can make whatever rules they want about _you _applying for a pardon for yourself," she pointed out.  "They can't make any rules about someone _else _lobbying on your behalf."  

                "People like you never do something like this for people like me," Brittany said, her eyes still blank.  Clarice found it more amusing than annoying.  This wasn't protest; this had simply blown the young inmate's mind.  She had never seen this coming.  

                "People like you _are _people like me," Clarice said softly.  "There's no difference."  

                She let Brittany have a moment or two to take it all in.  Then Brittany looked down at the paper and back at her.  

                "How did you do this?" she asked.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "I didn't.  The governor did.  I showed him your file and told him I had some doubts as to your level of criminal responsibility at the time of the offense.  I know all the legal talk."  

                "And what?" Brittany asked suspiciously.  

                Clarice answered the question by displaying a crafty smile.  "And then I asked him nicely and said please.  I'm not telling you any more.  I'd rather you be able to testify under oath that you never knew the details."  

                "So…so I don't have to stay here?" Brittany asked dumbly. 

                Clarice shook her head.  

                "Now that you mention it, let's get out of here," she said chattily.  "This place sucks.  How about we get on the road and get out of here?  I'll feed you if you want."  

                She didn't think it had registered on the girl, so she simply got to her feet and picked up her briefcase.  From it she withdrew a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and sneakers.  She placed them on the mattress in front of Brittany.  

                "Get changed," she told her.  

                Dumbly, Brittany obeyed.  Her mind was still blown by it all, Clarice thought.  It hadn't really cleared her registers.  She put on the free world clothes and stared at them in disbelief.  Her wrists had been deeply slit enough to make buttoning the shirt difficult.  Clarice helped her calmly and then led her from the cell.  

                The guard frowned at them.  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.  "You can't take her out of the cell."  

                Clarice grinned.  The governor's office had deliberately held off on informing the prison authorities.  It would be nice for Brittany to see the guards getting it put to them for once.  It was nicer for Clarice to tell the guards where to stick it.  

                "The hell I can't," Clarice said, and displayed the pardon.  "She's been pardoned.  You have no authority to hold her."  

                "She's a psych inmate now," the guard protested.  

                "She's _my _psych inmate, not yours," Clarice said.  "I'm not unreasonable, sir.  I'll give you sixty minutes – one whopping hour – to do whatever out-processing you need to do.  After that, you _will _let both of us go."  Her eyes flashed and she grinned.  This _was _fun, damn it all.  "If you impede us in any way shape or form from minute number sixty-one, sir, I will have you, and any other guard or official who gets in my way, arrested for kidnapping."  

                The guard's jaw dropped.  "You can't do that!" he protested.  

                Clarice grinned impishly.  "I'm an FBI agent," she said.  "I most certainly can arrest people for kidnapping.  You have one hour, sir. Starting now."  

                  After summoning some rank and verifying that Brittany Tollman had, indeed, been pardoned, the powers that be gave her back a box of her property and sent her on her way in the custody of Special Agent Clarice M. Starling.  Calmly, the two women proceeded out to where Clarice's car was parked by the Satellite Psychiatric Center. Clarice let her store her little box of stuff in the trunk.  She could see confusion and hope beginning to dawn in the young woman's eyes.  

                She could see Brittany tense when they approached the gate.  Clarice simply handed over the paperwork and explained what had happened.  Then the car simply drove away from the prison that had imprisoned both women and never would again.  Brittany turned in her seat and watched it recede in the distance, a chapter in her life closed out.

                The lights of the sleeping town lit up like emeralds on velvet.  For several minutes neither one spoke.  Clarice spotted an all-night donut shop and pulled into it.  Some coffee might be what the kid needed to clear her head.  

                So she bought a couple of donuts and two cups of coffee and gently steered Brittany to a booth.  Brittany held her coffee in both hands and sipped from it. Her eyes seemed to be clearing.   She looked exhausted and frightened to Clarice.  _Must be topsy-turvy enough for her, _Clarice thought sympathetically.  _In, out, back in, back out again.  _But now it was time to see if she would go back a third time or stay out.  

                "So what happens now?" Brittany asked.  

                Clarice nodded.  "Well, you're coming back to Virginia," she said.  "With me.  Then there are two ways this can go.  The first choice is that I can put cuffs on you and arrest you for arson, conspiracy to alter federal records, and impersonating a federal officer.  You know the score for that – I'd take you to jail, and you'd stay there while you were being tried.  Or you can make a plea bargain, I guess."  

                Brittany recoiled.  Clarice held up a hand and smiled disarmingly.  

                "The _other _choice is that you can turn state's evidence.  I talked to the US Attorney and the DA in Virginia.  Both of them are willing to give you immunity for your testimony.   I have an agreement here."  She took some papers and laid them on the table.  "If you sign that, then I will take you to an FBI safe house— _not _a jail—and you'll give me a statement.  Then you can stay there for the time being.  Rebecca DeGould doesn't know we have it.  Once you give me a statement I can get her arrested.  You'd be safe from her."  

                Brittany sipped her coffee again.  Her eyes sought out Starling's.  

                "This doesn't make sense," she said distractedly.  "You never once asked me about your friend, or Kiera."  

                Clarice nodded.  She hadn't, because she knew where that would lead.  Brittany didn't want to give Kiera up.  In order to do that, she had to be convinced.  

                "That's right," Clarice said.  "Not yet.  Are you ready to talk about that?"  

                "No, wait," Brittany managed.  "You did all this for me…and thank you, don't get me wrong, I appreciate it…but…," she swallowed and looked up.  "But you didn't know I would give you _anything."  _

Clarice nodded.  "Well," she allowed.  "Now you think about it a little.  You're small fish.  I want DeGould.  We make deals _all the time _with small fish to get big fish.  It's how the system works.  You're in pretty good shape.  You'll be free and out.  A second chance, just like you wanted.  Now Kiera…it's not that way for her.  She's a fugitive.  There _will _be a warrant out for her arrest, for the same charges that I told you I can charge you with."  

                Brittany's eyes lit with fear.  

                "Now, listen to me," Clarice said sympathetically.  "I know what you're thinking.  You're where _I've _been ever since I got out of prison.  You're in OK shape, but your friend isn't.  Think about your friend.  I know _I _have. If she's caught she is up a creek.  But it doesn't have to be that way."  

                "If I give her up," Brittany said miserably.  

                "You'd be doing her a favor," Clarice said.  "Look.  My job was to go to prison and write a report on what I saw.  New York State knows I'm writing that report.  That's part of why they wanted to keep me happy, and when they thought I had a bee in my bonnet over your case, they gave me a pardon for you without too much argument.  This prison project is big.  Don't take this the wrong way, but it's a lot bigger than you. They don't want federal oversight over their Department of Corrections.  They don't want the federal Department of Justice going after them for civil-rights suits.  They want it to go away.  One prisoner doesn't mean anything to them.  They'll give me one prisoner if they think it'll keep me happy.  Show of good faith, you could say."    

                Brittany put down her coffee cup and watched her intently.  

                "I couldn't do this six months ago.  The governor would never have paid attention to a grunt FBI agent.  Six months from now, things will be underway.  Trials starting.  Agreements being hammered out.  And I won't be able to do it then, either.  I know you want your friend free.  Hell, I can't blame you for that.  That's what _I _want for _my _friend.  And I can try to help her.  Her case is a lot like yours, I think that's why DeGould picked you.  But if you want to help your friend, then I need Ardelia out to do that.  But it's _got _to be now, Brittany.  Now I've got some clout.  Now Ardelia will have some clout.  Once that report is over and done with, she won't.  I'm not gonna lie to you.  Kiera will be arrested.  We're going to try and keep her in federal hands.  It's easier that way.  She'll have to spend a little bit of time in jail.  Can't be helped.  But a little bit of time in jail is a lot better than living as a fugitive and facing the rest of her life in prison if she's caught."  

                Brittany tensed, clearly measuring something in her mind.  Clarice continued, hoping to push her over and swing the fulcrum to her side.  It made sense.  She had a reason to help Clarice now.  

                "You're right, I did this without knowing you'd help me.  I gave you a leap of faith.  Now you give me one.  You've seen what I can do.  When this is done, you'll have a _real _second chance.  No one will be looking for you.  You won't be living under someone's thumb, either.  You can give that to your friend, Brittany.  Give her that chance too."  

                Brittany Tollman clamped down on the edge of the plastic table with both hands. The conflict was clear in her eyes.  The convict's code of ethics, long drilled into her mind.    A convict never hates on another convict's play.  Do your own time.  Never help the cops.  A snitch is the lowest form of prison life. 

  But she wasn't a convict any longer.  

                "You _better _help her," Brittany warned in a shaky tone.  

                "I'll do everything I can," Clarice said.  "Ardelia's a good egg.  She'll understand.  I'll talk to her.  But you gotta trust me."  

                "Miss DeGould doesn't know where she is," Brittany said aimlessly.  

                "But _you_ do," Clarice said, trying to keep her on track.  

                "She's…," Brittany sighed and shook her head.  

                "Do the right thing, Brittany," Clarice said softly.  "Help your friend.  She'll understand when she's out.  I need to know where she is.   Tell me now, while I can help."  

                Brittany took another bite of the donut and stared fixedly into space.  

                "There's this…little rural town in southern Virginia," she said haltingly.  "Tiny little spot on the map.  You'd never see it if you weren't looking for it.  Romulus, Virginia.  It's only got like a thousand people.  Her gramma lives there."  

                "And that's where she is?" Clarice probed.  

                Brittany adopted a look of despair and nodded.     

                "You did the right thing, Brittany," Clarice said approvingly, and patted her shoulder.   "Now come on.  We've got a long way to go back to Virginia."  _And a goddam crook to catch, _she thought.  

                She headed back home to win.

                …

                Isabelle Pierce awoke and glanced around the room curiously.  She had slept very well last night and felt much better.  Of course, that was partially because she was being discharged today.  Her shoulder was still a little stiff. 

                Dr. Litton did not come to discharge her, and Isabelle thought that a bit curious.  Had she spotted her in the bathroom?  But another doctor did come to pronounce her fit to be discharged.  She called her station and asked if someone could come and get her.  They agreed to send someone out.  

                Her clothing had been turned over to the police as evidence.  The hospital let her have a set of scrubs for the time being, so she wouldn't have to march around in a hospital gown.  They gave her some painkillers and wished her Godspeed.  A uniformed cop came up to the floor and brought her down to a cruiser grumbling contentedly away on high-octane gas.   

                "Seems like you've had a rough time of it," the uniform said sympathetically.  

                "Just a bit," she said, more shortly than she had intended.  "Part of the job."  

                It was true, she thought.  Perhaps her father was right and she should have taken a less dangerous job.  Somehow, serial killers seemed inclined to attack her personally.  First Armington, now the Cannibal Killer.  

                On the other hand, she reflected, Steven Armington now sported a permanent limp.  She gave as good as she got.  She wondered if he thought about it.  In the prison he was serving his time in, it would be a real handicap.   

                But Steven Armington's book was closed, and it was the Cannibal Killer who she had to seek now.  And she vowed she _would _get him.  No matter what the mayor said, or the higher-ranking officers thought.  The Cannibal Killer had attacked her in her own home. That had sealed the doctor's fate in her mind; she would see him in a cell regardless of what it took.  

The cop helpfully dropped her at her apartment and she went in to dress in her own clothes and check a few things out.  Even if her shoulder was too stiff for the field, she could work in the office.  Her apartment was much the same as she had seen it.  She stared curiously at the file on her computer desk.  She'd _thought _she left it on the coffee table, so she could flip through it while watching television.  But then again, she'd been stabbed, so perhaps her memory was addled.  

Her own clothes were preferable to the scrubs, and the weight of her Browning on her hip was quite a comfort.  She picked up the file and eyed it carefully.  For a moment, her head felt swimmy and she rubbed her temple.  

_Go to the Littons' home, _a voice spoke up in her head. 

Where had _that _come from?  She didn't need to go there.  She needed to go to the station and find enough proof to go and arrest Hamilton Litton.  Then she would fingerprint him and prove he was Hannibal Lecter.  And then her city would be safe.  

_Go to the Littons' home, _the voice repeated.  

Isabelle touched her temple and stared at her own reflection in the mirror.  Where were these thoughts coming from?  And why?  Perhaps she ought to take a sick day anyway.  She'd certainly earned one. 

_Go to the Littons' home, _the voice repeated a third time, a bit more firmly. 

Isabelle Pierce went out to her car and sat down behind the wheel.  Was she going insane?  Was this simply an aftereffect of anesthesia?  But she minded the voice and headed for Watson's Bay.  

When she arrived, she drove slowly along the road but did not stop.  She saw the figure of a man in the garage.  The figure of Dr. Hamilton Litton was clear.  He was dressed casually; a T-shirt and a pair of Dockers.  He lifted up a box and carried it into the house without a strain of effort.  Then he closed the door behind him and disappeared into the house. 

Detective Pierce's brow furrowed.  This did not make sense.  Dr. Litton was able to walk without any problem at all; he could carry a box.  But she had shot her attacker twice, point-blank, in the gut. No one who had suffered a wound like that could simply tote a heavy box like that.  The conclusion was inescapable. 

Hamilton Litton had not attacked her.  

Then the voice spoke again, telling her where to go next.  Isabelle did not know if it was simply madness or a policeman's hunch or simply an aftereffect of the ordeal she had been through.  But she heeded that voice and picked up speed again.  

Dr. Hannibal Lecter turned and watched her go.  It was killing him to simply sit here and wait.  He wanted his wife and son back.  He had once crossed the ocean for his wife.  Knowing where they were and knowing he could save them made him want to go immediately to them.  But if he was right, Isabelle Pierce could do his job for him _and _remove the threat she represented to him all by herself.  

There would be some danger, he supposed, but if Isabelle Pierce were afraid of danger, she would have become a kindergarten teacher instead of a detective.  She was trained for it.   If his guess was right, she would be strong enough to carry out her role.  He had simply given her a few of the pieces.  If Clarice thought highly of her, she would be able to put the rest together herself.  If she failed him, he would simply save his wife himself.  In either case, Erin and Michael would both be home for dinner tonight and the detective would no longer be an issue.   

Isabelle Pierce _thought _she had slept exceptionally well the night before in the hospital.  She did not recall the few hours in which she had been gently awoken and then given strong hypnotic drugs and put into deep hypnosis.  Nor would she; Dr. Lecter had covered his tracks exceptionally well.  

He had not brainwashed her.  He simply did not have the time. Instead, he had simply implanted a few simple post-hypnotic suggestions.  She wouldn't be able to function until she obeyed them.  It was akin to a song playing through one's head.  It would drive her mad until she complied. 

 But once it was done, the effects would flow away like the tides lapping the shores of his home.  She would be right as rain once she had done what he wanted her to.  That was fine with Dr. Lecter.  The psychiatrist had found something pleasing in her; an Australian version of Clarice.  The closest he would have.  There was enough there that he felt the world would be more interesting with her in it.  

Besides, he _was _a taxpayer and expected the streets to be safe. 

 He watched her Holden disappear in the distance.  Now, maddening as it was, he had to wait.  She was off to her destiny.  


	25. Comeuppance

            _Author's note:  Here we are…the bad guys get theirs.  Some of you will be happy; some will not. I hide behind the MFS rule. :D  I had written some other scenes too, but that will be in the next chapter; otherwise this would have been waaaay too long.  So…bad guys in the US and Down Under._

            Isabelle Pierce drove up to the city morgue in Sydney, still not quite aware what she was doing.  That little voice had told her to come here.  It might have been helpful if it had added in why or what she was supposed to be doing.  The dull gray building loomed ahead.  

                Ugly fluorescent lights mounted high overhead lighted the inside.  Isabelle's nose wrinkled.  What was she doing mucking about here anyway?  Surely there had to be better ways here to spend her time.  But the voice in the back of her mind was maddeningly insistent.  Every time she thought of going back to the car and back to the police station, it continued to yammer maddeningly. 

                She went into the autopsy room and watched a man in scrubs busily poke around at the corpse on the table.  When he had finished, he glanced up at her.  

                "Sorry," he said, "I was taping that and didn't want to stop it again.  Can I help you?"  

                _Ask to see the head pathologist, _the voice told her.  

                "I'd like to see the head pathologist," she said.  "The coroner."  

                He nodded.  "Dr. McGregory," he said.  "Righto.  Wait a moment, I'll rustle him up for you.  He's in his office."  

                Isabelle Pierce rubbed her temple as she left.  What had happened to her?  Why were voices in her bloody head?  Had all the stress of the investigation begun to drive her mad?  That was bad.  Despite her father's disapproval, she liked her job and was good at it.  Cracking up was not something she wanted to do.   

                The pathologist stuck his head in the room.  

                "He'll see you now," he said cheerily.  "Up the stairs and it's the first door on the left."  

                Isabelle headed up the stairs and opened the door.  Here it looked like any other office building.  One would never have known that below the dead were stored.  She opened the office door and entered Dr. McGregory's office.   

                He was sitting there behind the desk.  He was a rather nondescript man.  His face was thin and pinched, very sharp-featured.  His eyes were gray behind his spectacles.  He adjusted his lab coat and smiled humorlessly at her.  

                "Good morning, Detective Pierce," he said.  

                Isabelle Pierce observed the man who catalogued Sydney's dead calmly.  His accent was not like hers.  Nor was it like Dr. Elaine Litton's clear American accent, or even Dr. Hamilton Litton's educated British accent.  It was a Scottish burr, heavy and thick.  He pronounced the R in 'morning' the way Dr. Litton did, she noticed.    

                "Good morning," she said.  She smiled disarmingly.  "I was here to ask a favor, actually.  It seems the Cannibal Killer stole some papers from my apartment when he attacked me.  I was curious if I could get those replaced.  I'd be quite grateful."  

                He tilted his head curiously.  "Odd that he'd want those," he said.    

                She smiled.  "Apparently he did," she quipped.  Then, to change the subject, she said "That's an interesting accent.  Are you Scottish?"  

                He smiled a pinched smile.  "Yes, I am," he said.  "Been here since I was ten, though."  

                "Do you miss it?"  

                "Och, no," he said.  "Here is home, you know.  I've been here for so long."  

                She watched him carefully, a connection lighting up.  "Ever had haggis?" she asked.  

                He smiled again as if it was an old joke he no longer found funny.  "Not really," he said.  "I don't wear a kilt to work either."  

                He rose from his chair.  When he did, he grimaced and put his hand to his stomach.  "Let me get you copies of everything on the Cannibal Killer investigation," he said.  "Won't be a tick."  As he left, his hand patted her shoulder calmly.  

                Isabelle Pierce sat and looked around the office.  On one wall was a portrait of _Wound Man.  _She watched that carefully.  The poor bastard, stabbed through with arrows and a hammer applied to his skull.  That made her think of Quantico.  A dark room, a projection screen, and Clarice Starling's voice with that odd regional drawl.  

                She rose from her chair and examined his.  Against the right armrest of the chair was a stain of blood.  In his wastebasket were several bloody bandages and tape.  She pivoted then, realization flashing into her eyes.  As the pathologist returned with several papers in his hand, she drew the Browning and aimed it straight at him.  

                His gray eyes glanced at her in surprise.  

                "Detective Pierce!" he said.  

                Her eyes were wide and alarmed, but still under control.  

                "Dr. McGregory, you're under arrest.  Turn around and drop the papers.  Keep your hands where I can see them."  

                "You're being silly," he said.  "Honestly, Detective."  

                "Dr. McGregory," she said, "I am _not _joking with you.  Drop the papers.  You're under arrest for assault on a police officer.  I've shot you once; I'll do it again."  

                Ian McGregory sighed and dropped the papers obediently.  Under them, a knife clattered to the floor.  Isabelle stared at it for just long enough to realize what it was.  

                "Where is Dr. Litton?" she demanded.  Then she stopped.  Where had _that _come from?  Was she psychic now?  Where were these bloody voices coming from?  

                The Cannibal Killer saw her momentary confusion and took advantage of it.  He turned in the hallway and disappeared.  Isabelle Pierce plunged through the door after him and fired twice.  In the enclosed hallway the explosions were deafening.  She'd get in heaps of trouble for it, she supposed, but for now the chips would have to fall where they lay.  She would _not _be cheated of this.  

                The Cannibal Killer fell in the hallway of the Sydney city morgue.  Blood bloomed from his right side, where she'd hit him once in the kidney.  Detective Pierce sprinted towards him.   She closed the distance and grabbed his wrists, handcuffing him swiftly.  He was wounded, but he would live.  

                Wounded not only once, she noticed with satisfaction.  On his front, down towards his waistband, she could feel the bulk of a bandage.  Of course, he was a doctor himself.  He would have been able to take care of his own wounds.  

                Then the door to the stairs opened, and Dr. Hamilton Litton crossed around the doorway and observed her with her prisoner.  He took a moment to stare at them as if he had not expected to see it.  

                "My," he said.  "Detective Pierce.  Perhaps you can help me."  

                Isabelle Pierce kept her hand on her Browning.  She stared at the man she knew to be Hannibal Lecter and swallowed.  If they were partners…if he tried _anything…_she would shoot him dead and worry about the consequences later.  

                "My wife has been missing since last night," he said.  "I haven't been able to find anything of her. A neighbor told me that Dr. McGregory was seen at my doorstop."  His face took on a look of very human concern.  "I know we've had some difference, Detective Pierce, but I assure you, I'm only concerned for my wife and son."  

                Ian McGregory sighed and muttered something against the cheap carpet.  

                "What was that?" Detective Pierce asked, her pulse racing.  

                "They're alive," he said resignedly. "I hadn't gotten my meal yet.  I should've gotten you out of the way the first time."  

                Sirens were rising in the distance, and people were beginning to gather around.  Detective Isabelle Pierce took charge of the scene.  Dr. McGregory was transported under guard to the hospital.  She herself was taken back to the station to explain the situation.  Things moved so quickly after that.  There were forms and interviews and things to explain.  But the police in Sydney knew their first priority.  Dr. McGregory's statement was deemed enough to authorise a search of his home.  

                Once the policemen had broken down the door, Detective Isabelle Pierce entered the home ahead of everyone else.  She stepped forward into it and looked around.  At first, everything was calm.  A kitchen, a living room, a bathroom.  All jejune and workaday.  But the basement…

                Dr. Ian McGregory's basement was a horror that Isabelle Pierce would have just as soon have forgotten.  Bloody instruments sat in the sink.  A table stolen from the Sydney morgue occupied pride of place.  It, too, was stained with blood.  Photographs of his prior atrocities hung on the walls.  Alongside them, pictures of Hannibal Lecter and cheap paperback books about the American psychiatrist testified to the pathologist's interest in him.  

                Against one wall was a barred cage tall enough to stand up in and wide enough to lie down in.  In it was a trembling woman holding her son tightly to her.  She stared at Detective Pierce with wide dark eyes.  Calmly, the detective squatted by the cage and reached her hand inside.  

                "Dr. Litton?" she asked.  

                Elaine Litton nodded.  

                "We're going to get you out of there.  It'll be just a moment.  We're getting some tools."  

                The lock on the cage was easily overcome, and the surgeon and her son came out.  They looked unharmed, but just in case, Isabelle Pierce sent them over to the waiting paramedics.  Even now, she could show a bit of mercy.  If Elaine Litton was Erin Lander or not, she could at least let her get checked out.  That could wait.  

                She was surprised to see Dr. Hamilton Litton still around for a moment after the ambulance containing his wife and son had left.  He waved her down to attract her attention and she eyed him carefully.  

                "Aren't you going to the hospital to be with your wife?" she asked him.  

                He nodded, observing her carefully from behind his glasses.  He was an older, courtly man, but she could still sense menace coming from him. The wiry strength in that small, sleek body was far from gone yet.  Her eyes fixed his, probing and curious.  Was he or wasn't he?  

                "Oh yes," he said.  "Momentarily.  But I did want to take a moment to thank you, Detective Pierce."  

                "You're welcome," she said.  "It's my job."  

                "And you've done it well," he said.  "You've saved my wife and son, and for that I thank you.  Also, you've captured the Cannibal Killer.  This is a valuable notch on your belt, Detective.  Enjoy it."  

                He scanned her again with those dark eyes.  

                "I understand from Elaine that you took some classes at Quantico, from Clarice Starling," Dr. Litton said.  "I think she'd be proud of you." 

                Then he offered her a single smile and was gone.  

…

                The Acting Chief of Behavioral Sciences was not happy.  

 It seemed everything had gone from bad to worse.  She had _thought _that stashing Brittany away back in Bedford Hills's psychiatric unit would keep her out of trouble.  She had _thought _that freaking Beck might, just _might, _be able to keep Brittany under wraps for a little bit.  Considering he had been doing _exactly that _for the past _five goddam years, _she didn't think it was too unreasonable.  

But apparently it was.  According to Beck's contacts, a woman answering Clarice's description had shown up and taken Brittany away.  Her paperwork said she was Agent Sarah Barton.  At least she knew Clarice's cover identity.  

"How the hell did this happen?" she snarled into the phone.  

Beck's voice was nervous.  "She had a pardon," he said helplessly.  "We couldn't hold her."  

DeGould sighed.  "A goddam _pardon?  _It must have been forged.  Get her back."  

Beck made an unlovely sound as his throat clicked.  "It wasn't forged.  We checked with the governor's office."  

_                "What?" _DeGould said.  "How the hell did trailer trash like Starling manage to swing a pardon?  Find out what the goddam conditions of the pardon were and say she violated one."  

                Beck sounded like he was cowering in his concrete little office.  "It was unconditional.  She's free."  

                "Say she killed someone there! Say she assaulted someone!  _Get her back."  _

Beck let out a sigh in her ear.  "It's too late, Agent DeGould.  She's _gone."  _

"Put out a goddam APB on her then!  Didn't you know what Clarice Starling's car looked like?  Arrest them!  Do _something!"  _DeGould said hotly.   She wasn't screaming, but it was close. "Do I have to think of everything for you, you fat tub of lard?"  

                Beck was silent for a minute or two.  When he spoke, his voice was colder.  

                "Listen, I don't think you understand.  I _cannot _get her back.  The Feds are swarming over this place and we have orders to cooperate with them.  This whole goddam prison project."  He sounded disgusted.  

                "_You _listen to _me," _DeGould seethed.  "Brittany Tollman submitted a report that exonerated the guards there of _any _wrongdoing.  I should know.  I wrote it for the stupid little quiff.  The Feds shouldn't be bothering you at _all."  _

"Well, guess what, DeGould.  Some boys from Justice were in the warden's office this afternoon.  A corrected report was filed, it seems.  You got me into this.  If you don't quit ordering me around and start doing something, I'm gonna get me a lawyer and start seeing about a deal."  

                Rebecca DeGould shook with rage.  That…that _prison guard _daring to betray her?  

                "You do," she promised, "and I'll _see to it _that you rot in prison yourself for the rest of your life."  

                "You've got your own problems," Beck informed her.  

                DeGould slammed the phone down.  How dare he?  How _dare _he?  

                Clarice was gone.  Brittany was gone.  Kiera was gone.  She still had _one _ace to play.  She had another lieutenant in Florida DOC, just as she had Beck in New York.  She called Florida DOC and asked for Lieutenant Batson.  A few minutes later, he was on the line.  Rebecca smiled.  At least _someone _still respected her.  

                "Batson.  This is DeGould.  Your counterpart in New York has fucked _everything _up," she said coolly.  "I'm relying on you."  

                "What do you need?" he asked.  

                "Ardelia Mapp.  She needs to be taken out.  No transfer to Chowchilla; we waited too long.  Kill her."  

                There was silence on the other end of the line.  

                "_Kill _her, I said," DeGould said irritably.  "It's not like I'm asking the earth.   Go in her cell, handcuff her, kill her and make it look like a suicide.  It wouldn't be the first time – I _have _read the paper."  

                "I can't," Batson said calmly.  

                "Look," DeGould said through clenched teeth.  "This is _not _a game here.  Either you kill her or if she gets sprung then we all go to prison ourselves.  According to the paper there have been a few suspicious deaths on your watch.  So make one more! Because either you have a dead prison inmate or we're all going to prison ourselves, and I do _not _intend to go.  Neither should you.  Do you understand me?"  

                "Sure," Batson said, "but I can't kill her because she's not here.  She was taken into custody by a federal marshal two hours ago and taken out of the prison.  No cuffs or anything.  There are some Feds here now.  Do you want to talk to them?"  

                Rebecca DeGould's heart began to pound.  "Hell, no," she said, and hung up.  She sat down behind the desk and grabbed the edge of the desk.  Her carefully polished nails sunk into the wood.  

                _If they're all out…then I am screwed.  I'll go to prison.  If those two little morons are talking, I am dead meat.  _

The phone rang again.  She picked it up and sighed.  

                "DeGould," she said.  

                "DeGould, it's Sneed.  Have you checked your email?"  

                Rebecca let out a frenzied snort.  "No!" she said.  "Look…I have a situation here, Bob.  I really don't have time for this."  

                "You should.  Starling has been reinstated.  _Reinstated.  _They're saying she was undercover, not dead.  The wheels are coming off, Rebecca.  What the _hell _is going on?  This is not what was supposed to happen."  

                Did _anyone _have some good news for her?  "Bob," she said, smiling prettily, "look.  I need to make a few phone calls.   Let me call you back in five minutes." 

                "No, look.  _Don't _hang up.  I'm telling you.  We need to do something."  

                DeGould slammed down the phone and stared at the wall of her office for a few minutes while she calmed down.  Starling reinstated?  Someone up above covering for her?  That could only mean one thing.  They had her number and she was meat.  

Very well.  Perhaps it was time for a strategic retreat.  If she could get the hell _out _of here, she'd be fine.  She could be back in New York in a few hours of driving, and her father could protect her from there.  She could catch a flight to Europe from Kennedy or JFK.  Either that or drive up to Toronto and fly out of there.  It would be easy.  

                She walked out of the office and briskly down the hall to the elevators.  Time to get _out _of here.  The beating of her heart in her ears was hard to ignore.  _Just stay calm, get to the car, and everything will be fine, _she thought to herself.  

                At the exits were a knot of people.  A few of them seemed to recognize her and began to float over towards her.  

                "Agent DeGould?" one of them asked.  

                Rebecca DeGould smiled.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I'm in a bit of a rush.  I need to get going.  Can I take this up with you later?"  

                "I'm afraid not.  Would you come with us, please?"  

                DeGould stopped.  "First, I'd like to know what this is about."  

                "A complaint," was the only reply.  "I'd also like your ID and gun for the time being." 

                DeGould's carefully shaped eyebrow lifted.

                "Look," she said smoothly.  "If this is a complaint in OPR, then I'll happily accept a suspension.  But I _do _have to leave."  

                The agent was unmoved.  "It's not OPR," he said calmly.  "It's more than that."  More agents began to trickle over.  They stepped aside and revealed a figure.  Rebecca DeGould felt her blood chill.  

                Clarice Starling stood proud and free.  She held out her hand.  

                "Rebecca DeGould," she announced firmly, "you are under arrest.  Give me your gun and your identification."  

                DeGould took a step back.  The two agents nearest her grabbed her arms.  Without asking, one of them took her weapon from its holster.    

                "Miss DeGould," one of them said.  

                All was silent in the hall for a long moment, broken only by the ratcheting of the handcuffs around Rebecca DeGould's wrist.  When Clarice Starling spoke to break the silence, her voice was calm and pleased.  

                "Rebecca DeGould, you have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no cost.  Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"  

                DeGould put her head down and let out a low exhalation.  "You'll never make it stick, Starling," she said.  

                "Do you understand your rights, Miss DeGould?"  Clarice repeated distantly.  

                "Yes, I understand them, you hayseed," DeGould snapped.  

                "Good," Clarice said, and grinned.  "You are now under arrest."  

                She took Rebecca DeGould's arm and walked her out to a waiting car.  Stuffing her in the back was no different than any other of a thousand criminals that Clarice had arrested in her time.  Clarice slid into the passenger seat.  

                "So," she said calmly.  "Here's where it ends."  

                "You won this one, Starling," DeGould said.  "I did nothing.  This is grandstanding and you won't win again."  

                Clarice chuckled and looked at the angry woman in the rearview mirror.  "We'll see," she said.  

                It was perhaps a fifteen-minute ride to the jail.  As the car drew closer, Clarice noticed people thronging the sides.  They bore camera and DV camcorders.  Vans emblazoned with the logos of different news crews were parked alongside.  DeGould's eyes widened.  

                "C'mon, Rebecca," Clarice said as the car pulled over.  "Time to pose for your adoring public."  


	26. Starlight

                Jack Crawford was dead.  He had died several years ago.  His shadow still hung over the offices of Behavioral Sciences.  He might have been proud, now, to know that the one hound he had always tried to get into the pack now headed the pack in his stead.  With Conway retired, the title of Section Chief fell upon the Deputy Chief.  That role was currently occupied by none other than Clarice M. Starling.           

                His brother was still alive, and that was helpful.  His brother was willing to help out the woman who headed the department that Jack had so lovingly nurtured.  So when Clarice had asked him if she could stick a couple of witnesses at his farm, he was more than willing to give her the keys.   The farm was built back in the old days, and there were plenty of bedrooms.  

                Now, an '88 Roush Mustang grumbled along the long driveway.  A new sticker on the back window indicated where it had recently been replaced.  The tires growled over the crushed rock of the driveway.  A few FBI agents in suits and sunglasses eyed the car warily.  As it got closer, they recognized the driver and nodded.  

                Clarice Starling got out of the car and adjusted her sunglasses.  The farm _was _pretty nice.  It reminded her of her rural roots.  Behind the farmhouse, verdant green fields extended for what seemed like miles.  There were horses turned out in the various paddocks, ambling to and fro and munching on grass as if they had all the time in the world.  

                Ardelia unfolded herself from the passenger seat and followed Clarice into the house.  She was still tense from the ordeal she had undergone, but starting to relax.  As soon as they walked into the house, two things hit them. The first was the smell of chicken and cheese cooking in a pan.  Ardelia's eyes widened.  The second was Paul DaSilva's deep, rich voice raised in song.  Clarice tried to figure out what he was singing, but had no idea.  

She tried not to giggle at the sight of him ensconced happily in the kitchen.  He wore an apron and a chef's toque.  He stood over a pan in which several breasts of chicken were happily cooking.  In one hand was a bottle of olive oil.  He was adding oil to the chicken carefully.  

                "Cooking?"  she asked.  

                "Yes, ma'am," he said with a grin.  "I figured Ardelia would want a nice dinner now that she's out of the joint.  Besides, I like cooking."  

                "Nice hat," she observed with a wry grin.  

                "Heeeey," Paul DaSilva said, "when I cook, I go _all _out."   

                Ardelia grinned.  "So this is Paul DaSilva," she said. 

                Clarice nodded.  

                "Look here," Paul said.  "Chicken parmesan.  Lots of it.  Hope you're hungry.  And some wine, and pasta."  

                "I like him already," Ardelia quipped.  

                Clarice smiled.  When she spoke, a note of seriousness came into her tone.  "So where are they, Paul?"  

                Paul deftly transferred the chicken to a plate.  "They're out back," he said.  

                Clarice opened the sliding door from the kitchen to the back door.  There, two federal agents, an assistant US Attorney, and Brittany Tollman sat at a picnic table outside in the dying summer night.  Floodlights fought back the darkness for a small patch of the back yard.  Brittany had preferred questioning outside.  Clarice saw no problem with that.  

                All four people at the table stopped when Clarice stepped out.  

                "Hi," she said calmly.  "Don't stop on my account.  What all do you have?"  

                "We were just about to knock off for supper," Brittany said.  

                Clarice smiled tolerantly at her.  For the past few days, Brittany had been singing like the proverbial bird.  In the beginning, her only contact had been through Lieutenant Beck, who had called her into his office and told her if she kept her mouth shut and did exactly what she was told, she might get a second chance. After that, Brittany said, a woman answering Rebecca DeGould's description had arrived at the prison a few days later and told her what she would have to do.  From then on, she had gone over the entire thing.  The switch.  Beck had made duplicate ID cards and made sure to destroy the original ones.    After that, Brittany told them about DeGould's plan to switch the records.  Her plan to move Clarice and Ardelia to Chowchilla's SHU had made Clarice quite uneasy.  Brittany also fingered DeGould as the author of the arson at the duplex.  All of it was carefully tracked and put on paper, so that it could be spun into an inescapable web that would bind Rebecca DeGould.  

                "I brought you something," Clarice told her witness.  She stepped aside and smiled.  Behind her stood Kiera Washington.  She was slightly bedraggled from the few days she had spent in prison, but looked delighted.  She ran to her friend and they embraced in as fierce a hug as Clarice and Ardelia had shared when Ardelia had been freed.  

                Clarice found herself thinking that she wouldn't ever quite think of criminals the same way again.  Not after seeing how similar Brittany and Kiera were to herself and Ardelia.  People like them _were _people like her.  

                "Oh my GOD!" Brittany crowed.  Then she glanced over at Clarice.  "How did you do that?"  

                Clarice pointed at Kiera's ankle, which sported a device attached to an iron shackle.  

                "I got a judge to agree to electronic monitoring," she said.  "No big deal.  Better you're both here.  We need Kiera as a witness too.  Same deal as with you.  It's better here than in jail."  

                "But you said,…" Brittany began. 

                Clarice smiled tightly.  "I smiled real pretty and asked nicely," she said drily.  "That's all you need to know for now.  I've got my ways."  

                "Check this out," one of the agents said confidently.  "We've even got the username and password that DeGould used to change the fingerprint records."  

                Clarice tilted her head.  "Really?"  

                The agent passed her a sheet of paper.  "Right there," he said.  

                "How'd you get that?"  

                Brittany grinned and looked down.  "You weren't down long enough to learn that trick," she said.  "When you're a convict, you learn how to keep your eyes and ears open and look dumb." 

                Clarice laughed.  "Atta girl," she said.  Then an idea occurred to her.  "I'll be right back," she said.  

                She was gone for just a few minutes, and then returned.  Paul leaned out the door and called everyone in for dinner.  Ardelia stuffed herself like an unrepentant pig, grateful for the generosity of Paul's portions.  After dinner, they all took some time to relax.  For Clarice, this was finally a chance to rest.  Ardelia settled in with the TV; Brittany and Kiera selected some books.  Clarice decided she would rather adjourn to the bedroom with Paul for a bit.  The master bedroom was equipped with a big brass bed, and it was there that they curled against each other.  

                "So how did I give you the idea?" he asked.  

                "From what you said," Clarice explained.  "Clemenza sounded like clemency.  I know it's stupid, but it made the lightbulb go off.  Trading for clemency.  Then you said your guy there had people in the  governor's office.  I figured New York State would give me a pardon for Brittany, and it was the best strategic move I could make.  It got through to her, and any hold DeGould had on her was gone.  Senator Allstyne got me on the phone with the Senators from New York, and they in turn got the governor on the phone.  He's a politician.  He agreed to do it quietly, no press release.  If they ask, he's got enough cover.   He'll thump his chest about her being a battered woman and all and nobody will say much."  

                After that, they moved on to other, more pleasant carnal pursuits, and after that Clarice drifted to sleep in his arms.  The bed was a bit creaky, but it was warm and comfortable and she was not alone. 

                When she awoke, the farmhouse was consumed by night.  Overhead, the stars shone down.  The moon was full and bright, bathing the earth in white light.  Clarice blinked owlishly for a moment or two.  She glanced out the window.  Out in the back yard, perhaps twenty feet away from the house, a figure stood.  

                Clarice grabbed her gun and shoes and headed downstairs.  For some reason she was irrationally convinced that it was Dr. Lecter.  But as she padded down to the kitchen and reached the sliding door, she found it was not so.  

                Brittany Tollman stood outside, her face upturned to the night.  Clarice adopted a vaguely consternated look.  

                "Brittany, it's two in the morning," she said.  "You ought to get some sleep."  

                "I know," the other woman returned.  "I was just…looking at the stars." She essayed a somewhat guilty smile.  "I could never see them in prison.  The windows are so small.  Sometimes you can see just a couple.  Just enough that you miss the rest."  

                Clarice found herself thinking of Dr. Lecter's letter, all those years ago.  _I have windows.  Orion is above the horizon now…. _But now none of their stars were the same – not anymore. His life lay with another woman.  But she did not grieve.  Her path had not lain with his.  Even so, she was happy.  Where things would go with Paul she didn't know, but she enjoyed his company.  Once all this was over, whatever happened, happened.  Perhaps she could drop a word and help get him transferred down to DC.  

                "It's so big out here," Brittany added.  "You can see _all _the stars."  

                Clarice nodded and smiled.  

                "Though I wonder what I'm going to do now," Brittany said.  "In Bedford, at least I knew what I was going to be doing.  Thought I'd be doing it for twenty more years.  But now…now what am I gonna do?"  

                Clarice shrugged.  "Well," she said, "for now, we need you to testify against Rebecca DeGould.  So for now you can take a little time and adjust.   The trial is gonna take a few months at the least. Then…well, then, you do what you have to.  Get a job, get a place to live, and you'll get by.  Maybe get married, have a couple of kids.  Move back to Florida if you want.  It's up to you."  

                "I guess," Brittany said.  "It's just…I never thought I'd get this chance." 

                Clarice chuckled.  "It's a big, big world, Brittany," she said.   "There's room for everybody in it.  You'll do fine."  

                She found herself looking back up at the stars and understanding what Brittany meant.  You _couldn't _see them in prison.  She'd learned that much herself.  Now, she could truly understand why Dr. Lecter had wanted to escape so badly.  

                She thought of him one final time, before going inside.  He had gone his way; now she would go hers.  But she had given him one final parting gift.  

                …

                Isabelle Pierce stood in the police station over the trembling woman.  She found herself feeling some regret.  Dr. Elaine Litton had been saved at the pathologist's home.  They'd discovered her and her son locked in the basement.  The boy seemed troubled not at all by his ordeal.  He bounced in his father's arms happily.  His mother had taken it a bit harder; she was pale and shaking.  But she was also physically all right, as evidenced by her co-workers at the hospital.  

                The detective had found herself a bit shaken by the discovery that Hamilton Litton was not the Cannibal Killer.  Instead of the feared cannibalistic psychiatrist, it had been a Scottish pathologist who had lived in Sydney for the past thirty years.  She had been mistaken.  

                Or had she been?  Were the Littons no more than they appeared to be?  Why did they match the fugitive psychiatrist and surgeon, even down to the scars on Elaine Litton's back?  Was this simply a hideous coincidence?  

                She was about to find out.  She'd offered the surgeon some coffee as they took her statement.  Elaine Litton was rattled, and she had not noticed when Isabelle took the cup back.  Hamilton Litton had taken his son's sippy cup after the boy had emptied it.  She'd gotten that too and offered to get the boy some more juice.  Lifting fingerprints was not a difficult skill, and soon she had two prints she could use.

                She set each print in turn on the fingerprint scanner and scanned them in carefully.  A large digitized image appeared on her monitor screen.  She connected to the FBI's VICAP database and pressed search.  

                _SEARCHING… _the monitor reported.  

                Then something she did not expect happened. 

                _NO MATCH FOUND, _the computer informed her. 

                She tried again with the other print – Dr. Lecter's.  That _had _to be there.  

                _NO MATCH FOUND, _the computer informed her again.  

                It had to be an error.  She added the NCIC database and Interpol as well.  

                _NO MATCH FOUND.  _For both of them.  She added as many databases as she could possibly think of.  The inquiry, normally instantaneous, bogged down to ten minutes.  But it was irrevocable.  No matter what she did, what tricks she pulled out of her hat, the answer was always the same. _NO MATCH FOUND.  _

A uniform poked his head in at her.  

                "Detective Pierce?  The Littons want to know if there will be anything further."  

                Isabelle Pierce shook her head slowly.  She _knew _what she had seen.  It was obvious.  The Littons were the right age.  Erin Lander had been pregnant four years ago; the Littons had a three-year-old son.  And the bloody _scars _were right there on her back.  

                But she would have no choice but to let them go, after this.  The system did not agree with her.

                "Let them go," she said distractedly.  "I guess we have no reason to hold them further."  

                Then she sat there, staring at the monitor, and wondered how the hell this could have happened.

                …

                Five thousand miles away, Clarice Starling consulted the laptop computer she had plugged into the farm's phone line.  The connection out here was lousy, but it had done what she wanted.  She glanced at the screen.  Her parting gift to Dr. Lecter was on the screen. 

                _16 records for LECTER, HANNIBAL deleted _

_                14 records for LANDER, ERIN deleted _

                You are logged in as ADMINISTRATOR from remote 

                _Another command? (Y/N) _

Clarice typed N and shut the laptop down. Brittany had said that DeGould could not delete records.  In that, she had been wrong, as she had been wrong on a great many other things.  Clarice had learned how, with a little poking around.  

 It _was _a big world, and there was room for everyone in it.  Now Dr. Lecter and Erin would be able to raise their son in relative peace.  If she could have her own peace, she could share it.  Paul DaSilva let out a grunt and opened his eyes at her.  

                "Whatcha doing, Clarice?" he asked.  "C'mon to bed."  

                Clarice smiled a small smile to herself.  "Okay," she said.   And with that, she glanced out at the stars one final time.  

                _Some of our stars were the same, Dr. Lecter, _she thought.  _But not any more.  That's OK: you have Erin and I have Paul.  I'm glad you're happy.  I am too, finally.  There's your parting gift, Dr. Lecter.  Now…I'm letting you go.  _

Then she curled into bed and left Hannibal Lecter in her past.  Paul was with her in the present.  Ahead lay her future.


	27. Letting Go

                _Author's note:  Well, here we are, the end of the story.  Whether or not there will be another sequel I don't know.  But this has been enormously fun to write, and I'm glad for those who found it fun to read.  Screaming Lamb, I'm sorry you don't get your wish in this one…but you never know.  Also, thanks to LoT for volunteering to be the basis for Isabelle Pierce.  (I have this bad tendency to abuse characters based on fellow Lecterphiles unmercifully, and other than campaigning for Detective Pierce not to be killed, LoT took it rather well.)  _

                The prison was beginning to quiet down for the night.  Steel gates slammed shut on each cellblock.  Rebecca DeGould had learned to _hate _that.  She hated everything about this.  

                In the year since her arrest, things had gone to shit quickly.  Despite her father's best efforts, she had not been granted bail and had been detained during her trial.  They'd deemed her a flight risk.  On that, Rebecca had to admit they were right.  The system in Virginia was slanted towards the prosecution.  Juries were tough.  Given the opportunity, she'd have hopped a plane to Switzerland and gotten the hell out of town until the heat cooled.  In lieu of Bern, she had this cell.  

                She held a special hatred for her two little ingrates.  She'd offered them a second chance.  Her repayment for her efforts had been to have both of them switch sides and testify against her.  What was the _most _galling was that they were free.  In both cases, the governors of their respective states had given them quiet pardons.  In the grand scheme of things, this made little noise.  Far more clemency and pardon applications are granted with no fanfare every year than the public thinks.  And the sound and fury caused by the massive federal probe into state prison systems drowned out by far any complaints DeGould could have brought.   Ultimately there was nothing she _could _do about them; their pardons had both been signed and they were beyond her power.  

                A police officer who goes to prison has special needs.  Many prisoners will kill an ex-cop.  In most cases, a prisoner who is a former police officer is given a new identity to serve their time under.  In Rebecca DeGould's case, her attorneys had argued that there was so much publicity that it would be unfair to make her serve her sentence in either the Virginia state system or the federal prison system. 

                She would have vastly preferred New York, where her father could have gotten her special privileges, but instead they'd sent her to California.  Here in the Chowchilla women's prison, Rebecca DeGant became simply another inmate, here to serve out a thirty-year sentence for her crimes.  

                She'd been given a job in the psychiatric service's office as a clerk.  It was galling.  She had a degree from _Harvard, _for God's sake.  Yet here she was, taking orders from nurses and psychiatrists who had gone to Cow College University.  

                As the prison began to lock down for the night, Rebecca DeGould sat alone in her cell and sighed.  

That day had brought her two letters.  Neither of them were angry letters from her father, furious that she had squandered her life over her desire for revenge.  Despite that, he was still hiring attorneys for her appeal.   No, these were far worse.  

                She looked over the first.  

_Dear Rebecca,  _

_                By now you've probably wondered what I'm going to do to you in revenge.  Based on where you are, I could easily do so.  It would only take dropping the right word to the right person that you're a former FBI agent. You know how ex-police are treated in prison.  _

_                However, I'm not going to do that – yet.  I had nothing to do with what happened to you before.  I elected to show mercy to you, and in respect I shouldn't have.  This time, my mercy comes at a higher cost.  _

_                Serve your time and build yourself a life with whatever you can in prison, Rebecca.  You're going to be there for a long, long time.  If you leave me alone, I will do the same.  And that's **all **the mercy I will show you this time.  _

_                If you attempt to move against me in any way shape or form, then I will move against you.  You'll never be able to prove anything.  I can move behind the scenes too, when I have to.  I'll make sure it becomes known that you're former FBI.  Do you know what will happen then, Rebecca?  I'll make it easy for you.  They'll put you in protective custody – and in Chowchilla, that means the SHU.  _

_                I could be angry, and do so immediately.  You'd never be able to do anything to stop me, and after years in the SHU you would be as crazy as Brittany and Kiera testified you thought we would be.  But I am not that cruel, and perhaps I have learned something from this whole prison project.  Even the guiltiest parties deserve some consideration.  _

_                That's the mercy I will show you.  I have the axe over your neck; I won't drop it so long as you behave yourself.   Try and screw me, and I'll drop it with nary a drop of guilt.  I understand your lawyers are pursuing an appeal, and that's fine – that's your right under the system. You've got the best attorneys money can buy.  Maybe they can buy your freedom; maybe they can't.  We'll see.  But for now, Rebecca, I have the ability to make your life a lot more miserable than it is.  Keep that in mind.  _

_                                                                Clarice Starling _

_                                                                Section Chief, Behavioral Sciences_

_                                                                Quantico, VA _

What galled DeGould about it was that it was true.  Starling could easily obtain the name of a few prisoners and send them a letter easily and anonymously.  If they found out she was a cop, her prison term would be more miserable.  

                The other letter had arrived in an unmarked envelope.  Her profiler training told her straight off that it had been sent through an anonymous remailer.  But she had no way to act on it.  

                _Dear Former Agent Rebecca DeGould, _

_                I see from the local media that you've been publicly shamed and sentenced to spend a large amount of your life in prison for your crimes.  Normally, I'd have some sympathy for you.  After all, I, too, was once judged too dangerous to be allowed into society.  _

_                However, your target in this matter was a friend of mine, and I have not yet forgotten that you attempted once to use my wife as a pawn in crafting Clarice's doom.  At this point, you must feel rather disconsolate.  In lieu of Clarice's doom, you've painstakingly built your own.  Odd how these little things work, is it not?  _

_                I must add a bit more to your disconsolation.  _

_                Agent Clarice Starling had nothing to do with Gregory Lynch's attack on you.  **I **told him to attack you.  The sexual assault I will apologize for: that was his doing.  I did not order that.  Such things are rude.  _

_                But for what it's worth, Inmate DeGould, your attack on Clarice Starling was in error.  She was, simply put, not responsible. I daresay she would have demanded I stay my hand had she known what I was planning, even for you.  Your life stands in ruins…for nothing.  _

_                How does that make you feel? _

_                                Your pal, _

_                                Hannibal Lecter, MD _

Rebecca DeGould let out a long sigh and lay back on her bunk.  She stared out the barred cell door at the ugly green cement walls that constrained her.  The cries of inmates echoed up and down the run.  

                "This is _not _over," she whispered.  But no one heard. 

…

                The water was calm as it lapped the shores of the mansion in Watson's Bay.  The excited shrieks of a little boy echoed across the water.  Michael Litton, troubled not at all by the brief time he had spent in a killer's cage, ran across the deck and peered down at the water.  He extended a bare toe into its depths, felt the water, and pulled it back.  He ran back to his parents sitting on the deck, hands flung into the air, and plopped his damp body eagerly on his father's lap.  

                Hannibal Lecter smiled tolerantly at his son.  In front of him was a copy of the _Sydney Morning Herald.  _The headline across it read _Cannibal Killer found insane.  _According to it, the Scottish pathologist who had attempted to emulate Hannibal Lecter would emulate him in yet another way.  He would be incarcerated in a maximum-security psychiatric hospital in the countryside of New South Wales.   

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter found that _awfully _amusing.  He wondered if the director of the facility might be amenable to a few Chilton lessons.  After all, if Dr. McGregory wanted to imitate him, he really ought to get the full treatment.  Perhaps one day another killer would arise, and Detective Pierce might visit him to quiz him for his knowledge.  That would be _quite _amusing in and of itself.  

                The detective herself had been lauded for her capture of the Cannibal Killer.  There had been talk of establishing a national profiling center akin to Behavioral Sciences.  Dr. Lecter privately found that _extremely _amusing.  If they did, he rather hoped they put Detective Pierce in charge of it.  He would much rather have her running a department and dealing with the politics that rode along with such things rather than tracking him down.  

                But he himself had what he wanted.  Peace and quiet.  Clarice had told him of her final gift in a letter.  She had her own path to follow, and now that included another male presence in her life.  Although part of that tore at him, he would bear it quietly.  After all, Clarice had learned to live with it years ago.  

He turned as the door opened and watched his wife emerge out onto the deck.  Michael slipped from his lap and ran to grab his mother around the knees.  Calmly, she bent down to greet him, then turned her attention to her husband.  

                "How was surgery?" Dr. Lecter asked calmly.  

                "Fine," she said.  "Had a pacemaker implant in the morning. Then I got to assist over at St. Vincents for the heart transplant.  That was fun."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  That was rather a coup for her professionally.  She wasn't a transplant surgeon by trade, but her skill in the operating room had not gone unnoticed.   She'd done more cardiac work here and become expert at it over the past few years.  

                "Excellent," Dr. Lecter said.  "It seems Clarice has news of her own."  

                Even now, he could see her hands tremble at the sound of that name.  He sighed.  But perhaps hearing this would satisfy her.  The shadow Clarice had cast over her was largely in her own mind.  

                "What would that be?" she asked guardedly.  

                "She's getting married," Dr. Lecter told her calmly. 

                She never would have admitted the relief that played across her face upon hearing that.  Dr. Lecter stored it away in his memory palace.  He would not court domestic discord by reminding her of it, but it was there.  

                "So she's marrying her New York fellow," Erin observed.  

                "Indeed," Dr. Lecter agreed.  

                "How do _you _feel about that?" she asked.  Her eyes fixed his.  

                Dr. Lecter knew that the answer to the question might invite a glare that would scorch his collar.  He smiled pleasantly.  Between them, Michael bounced up and down excitedly.   

                "I'm glad that she will be happy," he said simply.  

                Erin seemed pleased with the answer.  "All right," she said.  

                "By the way," Dr. Lecter said, steering the conversation elsewhere, "we have dinner reservations tonight."  

                "I know," Erin assured him.  "Sunni will be by at seven.  She'll watch him."  She smiled.  "He's got a new video to watch."  

                Dr. Lecter grimaced.  "Better her than me," he observed.  

                "Well, let me get changed," she said.  "I suppose you'll be sending a letter to Clarice, then.  Leave it on the table.  I'll send it off in the morning."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded and watched his wife go.  He sat with his son and watched him play on the deck.  For a moment, he thought.  

                He had never expected his life to take the turns it had.  His early years in the United States; the dark years of incarceration.  Then his first meeting with Clarice and his subsequent escape.  His first meeting with Erin.  The lonely but luxuriant years of Florence.  How wonderful and yet how lonely it had been.  Then, his return to the United States, and his second meeting with both women.  How hard it had been to be forced to give her up.  But it was the way of things.

                "Be happy, Clarice," he whispered.  "Be well."  He took a long moment to gaze across the sun setting on the water, bright red and flickering on the water.  

                Then he took his son's small hand and brought him inside. 

                …

                The small stucco house sat next to the others.  A battered '88 Roush Mustang sat in the driveway.  Parked behind it was a red Dodge.  The sounds of crackling oil cooking in a skillet rose from the kitchen. 

                Paul DaSilva stood over his stove, humming a merry tune as he cooked.  Deftly he transferred the contents of the pan to a large serving platter.  He glanced around to see the form of Clarice Starling appearing around the corner.  

                "Heeey," he said.  "How was work?"  

                Clarice chuckled.  "Just fine," she said.  "The usual.  Meetings with Justice, shepherding a few Senators around, all that.  Politics."  

                "Hope you're ready for Sunday," he said.  

                Clarice chuckled and nodded.  

                "I am," she said softly.   She glanced over at the clock.  "'Delia's late."  

                "She's working late," Paul agreed.  "She'll be here."  He glanced out the window.  Ardelia had bought a place two doors down with her half of the insurance money.  Clarice found that best; she had her space with Paul, but 'Delia was right there when they wanted to be together.  

                 Paul had transferred down from the New York field office several months ago.  Other than being deprived of his beloved Yankees and Giants, he had done fairly well down here.  He wasn't part of Behavioral Sciences, just the regular FBI office.  That was good.  Clarice Starling ran Behavioral Sciences.  Having her fiancé working for her would have been a conflict of interest.  

                "I got email from Brittany," she said.  "She and her fella are going to try and make it up here."  

                Paul chuckled easily.  "Hope she's better about email now than she was," he quipped.  After the trial, Clarice had managed to drop a word with the FBI office in Miami and gotten Brittany in there in a secretarial position.  The concept of email had been a new thing to the former prisoner, and for a bit of time Clarice's mailbox had been deluged by chatty email.  Even so, she'd found it more amusing than anything else.  There was something delightfully ironic about getting email from brittany.tollman@fbi.gov and seeing Rebecca DeGould sent off to Chowchilla.

                "Fella?" Paul said, his eyebrows raised.  

                "Yep," Clarice said.  "That case down in Florida.  Leon Speer.  He was convicted for a murder and finally exonerated.  You saw it on the news.  Well, she'd written him in prison and now they're an item.  She says he _understands _her.  I told her she could bring him."  

                Paul chuckled.  "Ex-felon love," he said.  "Gotta love it.  It's so heartwarming." 

                 She gave him a mock scowl, amused by the way he pronounced it _hotwahming_.  "Now, now," she said.  "They're just people."  

"Yes, ma'am," he said, pretending badly to look abashed. Then a thought crossed his mind and his face wrinkled.    "Hey, wait a minute," he protested.  "If she marries him, then her name's gonna be--,"  
                "Paul," Clarice cut him off, stern as her Appalachian forebears, "they're happy together and that's all that matters.  There's enough misery in the world as it is."  A forefinger waggled at him in displeasure.  

"I better stick to my penne before I get in more trouble," Paul pondered aloud.  

Clarice eyed him with mock suspicion for a few moments before cracking a grin.  

"Maybe," she said. 

A knock at the door turned her head.  Ardelia was waiting outside.  Clarice smiled and let her in.  

"Hi, Clarice!" she said.  "Sorry I'm late."  

Clarice chuckled.  "That's fine."  

"You ready for the big day Sunday?" Ardelia challenged.  

Clarice nodded.  

"You nervous?" 

Clarice smiled.  "No," she said.  

Sunday.  Her wedding day.  A day she'd never known would come.  

Over dinner, they chatted pleasantly.  Clarice found her mind wandering.  She thought of Dr. Lecter in his cell all those years ago, caged and malignant.  There were other sides to him, as she'd found out over the years.  But there had always been a darkness to him, no matter how calm he had gotten in the meantime.  

A shade.  He had been a shade over her for years.  A dark presence in her thoughts.  He had been her teacher.  He had been her prey.  And he had made his own choice to go with another.  Even then, his shadow hung over her life.  She'd let him go before, physically.  Now she would let him go from her mind and heart.  It was what he wanted her to do, she believed.  He would want her to be happy. 

_Shades cast no shadows, _Clarice Starling thought, and then she let him go.


End file.
